


down to gehenna (but not alone)

by writeyourownstory



Series: Louder Than Words [2]
Category: 1917 (Movie 2019)
Genre: Anxiety, April 6 1917, Awkward Flirting, Claustrophobia, Empathy, Fix-It, Graphic depictions of No Man's Land, M/M, Panic Attacks, Psychic William Schofield, Slow Burn, Telepathy, Tom being Tom, but - Freeform, that day, the farmhouse scene, these two seriously, yeah that scene
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-06-26
Updated: 2020-08-22
Packaged: 2021-03-04 00:00:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 21,621
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24934150
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/writeyourownstory/pseuds/writeyourownstory
Summary: "—Blake, just listen to me!” Will begs. “If we're not smart about this,no onewill get to your brother.”"I will," Blake says, his tone final, the hard edge of steel sharpening his resolve.Will wants to scream. Blake’s bullheadedness was going to get them fucking killed. They needed to think this through—needed to plan and prepare. They had time, if only Blake wasn’t so dead-set on barreling them headfirst into danger.It was no use, Blake wasn’t going to listen to him—not with his brother on the line. Will let’s out a shaky breath, resigning himself to what lay ahead. All he could do was try and keep the boy safe. And he would, no matter what it took.(Will is psychic. It makes a difference that day.)
Relationships: Tom Blake/William Schofield
Series: Louder Than Words [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1776946
Comments: 65
Kudos: 156





	1. Gehenna

**Author's Note:**

> Ok! Here we go! A sequel to _and there you were (always on my mind)_! I am exhausted o.0! This took _way_ too long to write!
> 
> This takes place during the events of the movie, with my psychic!Will spin on things. (If you haven't read ATYW, just a little heads up--Will Schofield is psychic--telepathy and empathy! You don't have to read the first one but it may make more sense if you do? Just saying!)
> 
> Anything speech written in _Italics_ : mental speech/what Will hears when he reads someone's mind.
> 
> Anyways, I hope this doesn't suck! Enjoy!

The day was turning out to be a lovely one. A cool breeze was cresting over the meadow adjacent to their camp, swaying the tall grass and the leaves on the trees. Combined with the warmth of the afternoon sun and the scent of dry grass and wild flowers, Will can tell that spring has finally arrived—that life was slowly making its way back. He takes a deep breath, allowing his lungs to fill with the surrounding scents of new growth. He relaxes back into the tree he was dozing against, Blake not far from him, fast asleep and snoring softly—vague feelings from nonsensical dreams sliding over to Will every so often.

It was peaceful—he could almost pretend the bombardments in the distance were thunder from an approaching rain cloud, rather than the reminder they actually were. The rasp of thoughts from the weary men around them did little to ruin the day’s calmness. Will understood and felt their fatigue. They were enjoying some much-needed downtime, their company having just come off a thirteen-day stretch in the trenches. Mud still clings to their clothes and skin and it makes Will itch uncomfortably. Long nights of artillery fire and long days of digging to reconstruct downed walls left them little time for rest. Once they were released and made it above ground again, Will wasted no time heading to their spot—Blake not a step behind him—where they could get a few hours of uninterrupted rest.

Will, in his drowsy state, finds himself mentally reaching out to Blake, probing the boy’s mind with the most tenuous of touches. It’s something he’s been doing as of late, a way for him to check on Blake, make sure he’s alright. He’s been doing it more since the boy’s close call during the gas attack a month back (the boy still has shortness of breath, wheezes a bit when he walks too fast or runs). His mind instinctively searches the boy out, brushing against his thoughts, his emotions, allowing Will’s senses to be filled with his presence in more than just the physical ways. Even as buried as they are in sleep, Will still found the familiar fringe of Blake’s consciousness comforting and he wraps himself in it. He relaxes even more.

A gust of wind plays with his hair and he finds he is content for the first time in weeks.

Of course it couldn't last.

"Pick a man. Bring your kit."

As Sanders marches off and Blake gathers himself with barely contained frustration, Will can't help but sigh. They can never have a moment's peace, can they?

He feels Blake’s decision before the boy even reaches out a hand to him. Will contemplates feigning sleep—he was exhausted, sleep seemed to be so elusive here—but he knows he can't say no to the boy. Not with those eyes looking at him so earnestly and the fond impatience being directed towards him. So he lets himself be hoisted up with nothing but a tilt of his lips, the warmth of Blake’s hand lingering on his palm. He adjusts himself, gathering his gear and following Blake to wherever their sergeant is leading them. He shakes the exhaustion from his bones, some of it secondary from the tired soldier lying around them.

“Did they feed us?” Blake asks as they make their way through camp. Lethargy still clings to him but hunger and curiosity were quickly replacing it with every step they took.

Will smirks. He never knew hunger could have an emotion until he met Blake. The boy radiates it constantly—Will has found the gnawing hollowness in his own stomach to have worsened since Blake started hanging around.

He shakes his head. “No, just mail.”

Blake’s disappointment quickly disappears when Will brings out a letter for him, the courier having handed it off to him when Blake refused to rouse for mail call. Then there’s nothing but excitement and warmth and bittersweet homesickness as he devours the letter, the words jumping rapidly in through his head. Will knows it’s from either his mum or brother from the mix of emotions. The younger man only gets this way when he’s reading correspondence from them.

“Myrtle’s having puppies,” he announces as he finishes reading.

_This’ll be her third litter. She had some right gorgeous pups last time. Bet these’ll be the same._

Will smiles at Blake’s happiness—warm, like the sun on his face—only slightly soured with regret. The smile doesn’t feel forced on his face.

“You get anything?” Blake asks as he pockets his letter, bringing Will back to himself.

It’s innocent enough, but Will knows a loaded question when he hears it. He doesn’t speak of home, doesn’t talk about his sister or his nieces. Blake knows of them, Will having shown him their pictures weeks ago, but Will hasn’t written to his sister in so long, and she eventually stopped writing him. He had wanted it this way, but that doesn’t mean it’s any less painful.

“No,” he replies. He can feel Blake’s eyes on him, but the boy doesn’t comment. It doesn’t stop Will from feeling his sympathy, gentle like a smooth current, overlaid with exasperation from Will’s stubbornness. He’s one to talk, the hypocrite.

They pass by the mess tents, Blake lamenting how starved he is with such dramatics that it makes Will chuckle. He brings out the handkerchief-wrapped ham and bread from his pocket that he saved during their last meal—he knows how to prepare, unlike Blake—and watches the boy focus on him like a starved hound.

“Where did you find that?”

“I have my uses,” Will says as he breaks off more than half to give Blake without having to be asked. The boy accepts it with warm appreciation.

Their disgust nearly matches as they bite into the stale bread.

“Tastes like old shoe,” Blake complains as he chews.

_I miss real food. I think they’re actually feeding us dog shit._

Will winces and forces the food down. He would not put it past them. He was well aware they were low on rations, having listened in on the kitchen staff last week. Will doesn’t doubt that they’ll have to dig into their iron rations in the near future.

“Cheer up,” Will says as brightly as he can. “This time next week it’ll be chicken dinner.”

By this point they’ve entered the trenches, going deeper into the ground with each step. It’s such a contrast to the world above—cold and dank and bleak; the smell of unwashed bodies, excrement, and mud rank in the air—that the peace Will had managed to find under the spring sun withers on the spot. 

Blake’s mood shifts to match the despondent air of their surroundings.

“Not me. Leave got cancelled,” Blake states, resigned anger coming off him.

Will’s brow furrows. “They say why?”

“No idea.”

_—was looking forward to it, too. Wanted to see mum so bad._

Will knows he did. He feels Blake’s longing as his own.

The world above them has completely disappeared as they follow Sanders deeper into the trench. Will thinks about home, about his sister and his nieces. He would give anything to see them again. He had the chance for leave back in October but remained in France. His mind had been so fragile after the Somme, and he knew he would be in no state to see his family. It broke his heart to stay and not jump on the first transport out, but he knew the pain of them seeing him like that—

“It’s easier not to go back at all,” he says mostly to himself. He fights a wince when he feels Blake’s displeasure.

“You shouldn’t say things like that, Sco,” Blake admonishes him softly.

_Wish he wouldn't say stuff like that. I know he misses his family, he just won't admit it. I can see it killing him._

Will shifts his shoulders and doesn't look at him. The truth in those words leave a sweltering ache in his chest.

The rear trench is a bustle of activity when they enter, the air buzzing with anticipation that makes Will’s eye twitch.

“Something’s up,” Blake murmurs. Will agrees, but he can’t get a clear read on any of the men rushing past them.

He feels a thrill go through Blake.

_Something’s happening, something new, different, what could it be?_

Will does his best to ignore his apprehension as they move through the crowd, following Sanders down the line. It could be nothing.

Two men rush past them carrying crates of ammunition. Another passes with medical supplies.

It was definitely something.

“Has to be the push, right?” Blake wonders, excitement rolling off of him. Will wasn’t so sure but he doesn’t say otherwise.

They follow Sanders into the secondary trench and Blake starts pestering the sergeant for answers.

“Is there news, Sarge?”

“News of what?” the sergeant replies blandly.

“The big push,” Blake clarifies. “It was supposed to happen weeks ago. They told us we’d be home by Christmas.”

Sanders’ tone is mildly sarcastic as he looks back at the boy. “Yes, well, sorry to disrupt your crowded schedule, Blake, but the brass hats didn’t fancy it in the snow.”

_Not that they’ll ever get their fucking feet wet, the posh bastards._

Will raises an eyebrow at Sanders’ disdain, but he wasn’t surprised. The sergeant surliness extended to more than just the lower-ranking soldiers he was in charge of.

Blake’s response is dry, his disappointment bitter. “More’s the pity Sarge, I could have done with some turkey.”

“Well, I’ll make sure to relay your displeasure to command.”

They make their way past the spiderweb of telegraph wires, Will noticing several royal engineers working on a few of them, a hum of technical babble mentally overlapping their tedious work. Their irritation is palpable as the three of them duck around the workers and head on.

Will decides to test his luck with getting information. “So what’s on the cards then, Sergeant?”

Sanders’ reply is swift and angry. “The Hun are up to something.”

That doesn’t bode well. Will ties to probe the sergeant’s mind but finds nothing relevant. “Any idea what?”

“No. But it’s bound to ruin our weekend.”

_—won’t know until Erinmore spills the beans, anyways. Don’t know what he wants with these two._

Will’s steps falter. He manages to keep moving, Blake pressing on in front of him in his hesitation, but his mind is racing. _General_ Erinmore? That’s who sent for them? What would—what could he possibly want with two lance corporals? Will schools his features and hopes his shock doesn’t show as he now follows Blake behind the sergeant.

They round a few more corners before Sanders stops in front of a dugout and turns back to the both of them, face serious.

“Now listen. Erinmore is inside, so tidy yourselves up.”

Will's back straightens involuntarily and he feels the prickle of sweat run down the back of his neck. Blake’s surprise is jolting as he comes to attention beside him.

(Will knows they won’t be asked to do some menial task like always. The tense uncertainty that the sergeant was giving off was telling enough.)

Sanders gives them a bemused look. “You never know—might be mentions in dispatches for this one, if you don’t bugger it up.” 

With that the sergeant disappears into the dugout.

Will does up the buttons of his tunic with nervous fingers, the green scarf his sister gave him tight around his neck. Blake is tidying himself as well, the boy buzzing with nerves as he adjusts his uniform and straightens his helmet. 

“Must be something big if the General’s here,” Blake mutters, interest overcoming his nerves. Will can feel the surge of his anticipation.

_Maybe we’re being promoted?_

Will thinks Blake’s optimism is wasted. If he concentrates hard enough he can sense the mix of emotions and stray thoughts coming from within the dugout. They were not promising.

Either way, Will follows Blake into the mouth of the dugout, ignoring his mounting trepidation the further in he went.

“Your orders are to get to the 2nd at Croisilles Wood, one mile south east of the town of Écoust.”

Will tries to control his breathing. He thinks he’s going to be sick. Beside him Blake is brimming with fierce determination, rock steady compared to Will’s brittle mental state.

He barely pays attention as the general passes Blake an envelope. He can just make out the distinctive red stamp of Army Command in the dim lighting. Blake’s hand trembles a little as he takes it.

“Deliver this to Colonel Mackenzie. It is a direct order to call off tomorrow morning’s attack,” Erinmore instructs them, voice crisp and direct. He shifts his stance, gazing at the two of them with a weight that Will can feel in his chest. It makes it harder to breathe.

_They’re all so young._

Will swallows his bitterness at the general’s thoughts. The sorrow from those words do not shift the man’s countenance. His eyes are cold, hard.

“If you don’t, it will be a massacre,” Erinmore continues, voice slow. His need to impress on them the gravity of the situation hits Will like a sledge hammer. “We would lose two battalions. Sixteen hundred men, your brother among them.”

Blake stiffens beside him, the surge of his emotions overwhelming. Will fights the urge to look at him.

—There’s a sudden flash behind his eyes—the image of a man, tall and roguish, familiar blue eyes shining with warmth and love—

Will blinks, the image fading away as swiftly as it came. His brow furrows, unsure of what just happened.

The general’s commanding voice brings him back to the present. “Do you think you can get there in time?”

Blake’s answer is immediate. “Yes, sir.”

Will just tries to breathe slowly.

“Any questions?”

Yes. Yes he has questions. To many to voice.

Blake’s resolve is steadfast. “No, sir.”

Will does look at Blake in that moment. He tries to catch the younger man’s eyes, tries to convey some kind of message between them. The boy avoids his eye, keeping his focus on the general.

Erinmore nods, his satisfaction a small thing. “Good.”

Then they’re being handed off to Lieutenant Gordon, and the next few minutes are a blur of shoving supplies into their webbing and packs. Blake grabs the folded map, but they are each given a torch, one grenade, and two small tins of biscuits. Meager supplies, but less to weigh them down. They need to be fast, Will thinks blankly.

They’re given their directions out of the trenches, reassured of the German’s retreat by the officer’s present (their confidence in that knowledge means nothing to Will), and seen to the exit. They’re all but being shoved out of the dugout when Will stops and turns back to the general, who has gathered with his men around the maps once more.

“Is it just us, sir?” he asks, dreading the answer.

Erinmore’s weary compunction leaves his stomach feeling like lead before the older man even starts speaking.

“ _Down to Gehenna or up to the Throne. He travels the fastest who travels alone_ ,” the man quotes. He looks to Gordon. “Wouldn’t you say, Lieutenant?”

“Yes, sir. I would,” Gordon answers, ever the demur subordinate.

Will wants to strangle the both of them. He works to keep his face neutral, holding in his rage as they are dismissed and sent out of the dugout.

Will emerges into daylight behind Blake, a numb, overwhelming panic creeping up his throat. It was just now hitting him, the enormity of what they’ve been tasked to do.

“Blake—let’s talk about this for a minute,” Will voices urgently. They needed to plan, to strategize. They’ve never done anything like this.

But Blake isn’t listening to him. The boy’s brimming with emotions. He barely shoots off a curt “Why?” before he’s tearing down the trench like a fire’s been lit under him. Will curses and moves after him, trying to fill and fasten his webbing as he goes.

Blake’s powering down the secondary trench with a single-minded determination, pushing past other soldiers heading the opposite way. Will has to run to catch up with him, struggling past milling soldiers and officers. He reaches the younger man, falling in behind him.

“Blake—Blake! We just need to think about it,” Will insists.

“There’s nothing to think about. It’s my big brother,” Blake says, voice hard, not even looking back at him. He keeps his punishing pace and Will’s struggling to keep up—feet clanking painfully on the wood plank walkway as he hurries alongside the younger man. The steady stream of _Have to get there, have to get to Joe_ fell in time when their footfalls, Blake’s desperate need to get to his brother filling the space between them. He was already wheezing—from exertion, from the desperation, Will couldn’t tell.

Will’s throat feels tight. Panic blooms in his chest and he viciously stamps it down. The last thing he needs is to have one of his fits in the middle of the trench like this. Blake’s raw anxiety was doing little to help, though. He needs to try and talk sense into the boy.

"We should at least wait til it's dark—"

Blake interrupts him, "Erinmore said to leave immediately."

"Erinmore’s never _seen_ No Man's Land," Will spits. He’d heard the words himself, straight from Erinmore’s mind. The man hasn’t set foot in that place, not once. There was only so much a man could glean from _aerials_. "We won't make it ten yards. If we just _wait_ —"

"You heard him. He said the Boche have gone."

Will scoffs. "Is that why he gave us _grenades_.”

(It sits heavily in his pack. The _Just in case of strays_ that had come from the Lieutenant Gordon’s mind as he handed them out did little to set Will at ease.)

Blake’s resounding doubt is answer enough.

The second line runs through a small row of rundown railway stations. Coal pits have been lit, men gathering around the heat, others queuing for rations further down. Blake shoves past them, Will still on his heels, riding the edge of the trench to get around the crowd. Blake gets through with no problem, but Will has to apologize as he bumps into people, being awash with their agitation. He has to resist the urge to rub his temples, his head throbbing from the dissonant minds around him. He grits his teeth against the pain.

“All I’m saying is that we wait," Will persists.

"Yes, you would say that, because it’s not your brother, is it?" Blake growls back at him. Will grabs him by the arm then and forcibly brings him to a stop.

" _Blake_."

Blake’s resolve is warring with irritation, and when he looks at Will, his eyes are wide and frantic, his emotions in turmoil. He sighs at Will’s disappointed frown, though, guilt coming swift and sharp at the heels of his anger.

_Fuck, I didn’t mean to say that._

"I'm sorry, Sco,” he says quietly, anger tempering with shame. “I just need to get to him.”

Will nods, unfazed. "I understand. I _do_. But the last time I was told the Germans were gone, it didn't end well."

Blake looks away from him. Will can feel the boy’s unwillingness to meet his eyes, to see the product of the Somme written on his face.

“We can’t just take Erinmore’s word as absolute truth. We need to plan. Prepare better. We have time. If we just wait a little bit longer—”

Any understanding Blake feels from Will’s pleas are quickly overcome with cold determination once more.

"I have to get to my brother, Sco."

With that he shakes Will off and pushes on again. Will growls in frustration, but he's behind the younger man in seconds.

They squeeze in and out of the lines of traffic—their shoulders and packs battering against other soldiers as they pass. Will mutters apologies as they go, doing his best to soothe the ire of the men around them. They meet group of soldiers clogging up the trench and Blake impatiently shoves through. The boy’s breath is whistling by this point. Still he keeps his speed, but Will notes he’s doing the breathing exercise that Will showed him.

They come to a junction, a painted sign labelled "SAUCHIEHALL STREET" points them to a smaller branching comms line and they follow it. The trench gets narrower and they have to go against the direction of traffic. Will is forced behind Blake single file and he grows more frustrated the further they go. Blake refusing to listen to him is going to get them killed. They have to be smart about this.

Will looks down as his watch, seeing just past sixteen hundred.

He tries to compromise. "Alright, say the Boche _have_ gone. Nine miles will take us, what, six hours? Eight at the very most. So we’ve got time to wait until the sun sets. Otherwise we’ll be wide open—"

"—It's enemy territory, we've got _no_ _idea_ what we're walking into—"

"—Blake, just listen to me!” Will begs. “If we're not smart about this, _no one_ will get to your brother.”

" _I will_ ," Blake says, his tone final, the hard edge of steel sharpening his resolve.

Will wants to scream. Blake’s bullheadedness was going to get them fucking killed. They needed to think this through—needed to plan and prepare. They had time, if only Blake wasn’t so dead-set on barreling them headfirst into danger.

It was no use, Blake wasn’t going to listen to him—not with his brother on the line. Will let’s out a shaky breath, resigning himself to what lay ahead. All he could do was try and keep the boy safe. And he would, no matter what it took.

The frontline is a familiar sight to Will.

There is an eeriness in this part of the trenches—a sudden smothering silence. There’s no sound of gunfire or artillery explosions, yet there is an uneasiness in the air, an expectation for things to turn bad real quick. The men who aren’t keeping stand-to lounge in their holes or on raised planks—smoking, writing, playing cards, or just trying to get some shut-eye. They are all exhausted, on edge, and Will feels like one of them in that moment. Fear tries to root itself in him but he fights it down.

Blake is uneasy beside him and Will can’t help the concerned glances he shoots the younger man. The confrontation with the wounded soldier moments before has left the boy shaken, but he’s still steadfast in his need to get out of the trenches and to the 2nd Devons. They continue their search for the Yorks, silence heavy between them.

“It’s bloody quiet,” Will eventually says, hoping to distract Blake.

There’s a beat, then Blake looks over at him. “Was it like this before Thiepval?”

The name does something to Will. Panic clings to him, making his throat feel tight. He tries to shove it away.

“I don’t remember,” Will lies.

(It was, actually. After three days of bombardments, the day they were to go over felt like the calm before the storm. So quiet, Will was sure that time must have frozen. That is, until whistle blew and they spilled from the trenches—straight into machine gun fire.)

Blake’s confusion makes his head pound. “You don’t remember the Somme?”

“Not really.” Not all of it, at least.

Will can feel Blake’s eyes on him. His concern is stifling.

_I wonder what he saw out there, to make him look like that—to make him forget such a thing._

“Well, you did alright out of it,” Blake says instead. “At least wear your ribbon.”

“Don’t have it anymore.”

“ _What_? You lost your medal?” Blake is shocked by that admittance and Will wants to smack the boy round the head in exasperation.

But it was a conversation for later. In no time they make it to the Yorks, a dour Lieutenant Leslie showing them their route and grudgingly setting them up with a single flare. He amuses himself with giving them their last rites, sprinkling cheap whiskey on their clothes like a satirical priest, before sending them off with nothing more than a sarcastic “ _Cheerio_ ”. It was all happening so fast that before Will knew it, they were standing on the firing step, inches away from going over the top.

Will’s hands were shaking. He tightens his grip on his rifle in an attempt to hide it. He swallows down the bile rising in his throat and looks over to Blake, standing beside him and looking just as pale and feeling just as shaken as he was.

“You sure?” Will asks quietly.

He has to try, one more time.

He sees Blake swallow past a lump in his throat, his jaw clenching.

_No. No I’m fuckin’ not._

But Blake nods, despite his nerves. “Yes.”

He goes to climb over but Will stops him, something protective and fierce rising in him.

“Age before beauty,” Will says with a grim smile. It’s a poor excuse for humor, but it seems to steady Blake somewhat. They’re eyes meet briefly and something passes between them in those few seconds.

The General’s words come back to him in that moment.

“ _Down to Gehenna or up to the Throne. He travels the fastest who travels alone_.”

Will's grits his teeth. Through Gehenna they may go, but they were not alone. They had each other.

He tears his gaze away from Blake, facing the lip of the trench. He readies himself, takes a deep breath, and before he can think twice about it—climbs over.

It was so…quiet.

It was strange—No Man’s Land was distant memory for Will, in a way that a nightmare was after waking. The barren landscape, unbearably vast and endless after months of close quarters in the trenches, stretches out before them—lunar and devoid of human life. The viscous, treacle-like mud clings to their feet as they begin to make their way across, like it wants to swallow them straight into the earth. A mist hangs over the land, ghost-like and unsettling, blocking out the sun, and it brings a chill to Will’s sweaty skin. The craters, deceptively deep, are pocketed everywhere, bloated bodies floating in the stagnant water and crows feasting on the putrid flesh, their caws like a death-tolls. The smell of rotten earth and putrefaction was awful. That, and the niggling feeling of _welcome back_ , make’s Will’s stomach churn violently.

And it was so damn _quiet_.

Blake was a steady presence beside him, his loud breathing and tense consciousness the only things keeping Will grounded. Even if his thoughts were subdued and strained from vigilance, his emotions a haze of fear and paranoia, it was still something in this nothingness around them.

Being surrounded by people for years does not prepare him for the absolute _vacuum_ of a place like this. He's marched across No Man’s Land a different time, in a different place, but that was in the midst of battle. As it was now, this stretch of land was as silent as the grave it was made to be. It’s like one of his sense has been dulled. It leaves him reeling.

In reckless desperation, he does something that he hasn’t done in a long time. He reaches inside his mind, pulls on the thing that he knows is the cause of his gifts, and flings it out away from him in every direction. His range is hardly limited—reaching almost half a mile in each direction if he pushes himself. He’s able to sense the Yorks behind them, but nothing in front of them. They will have to get closer to the German line before he’ll be able to get an accurate reading. He wipes a trickle of blood from under his nose and carries on, ignoring the spike of pain in his head.

They make it past the dead horses—the cloud of flies clinging to their decayed flesh swarm them, the stench overpowering—and through most of the wire before Will has his hand ripped open on the hooked barb. If his hand didn’t go through a dead German’s back minutes later with the ease of sliding through Camembert cheese, he’s sure he would have only been mildly inconvenienced.

Still, they make their way forward, and the whole time Will’s prepared to be shot to pieces, or blown up by a grenade, or to step on a mine or artillery shell—but nothing happens. They make it past the sap trench; past abandoned tanks and craters stories deep, filled with decomposing bodies and standing water; past faces that peer up at them, half buried in the dirt, skin dissolved into slime on smiling skulls. They make it to the German wire, closing in on the German frontline and still—Will detects nothing. No one.

It’s so. _Fucking_. _Quiet_.

It’s almost a relief to crest the lip of the German parapets.

“Fuck me," Blake marvels as they observe the empty trench. "They really have gone."

Will breathes heavily beside him, bringing his rifle to rest at his side. There’s no one in the area. The trenches are deserted as far as he can tell.

The Germans have retreated. Erinmore was right.

Will’s legs feel shaky as they descend. He's still disturbed by the utter stillness of around them, the lack of conscious minds to fill the quiet, but at least they were out of the openness of No Man’s Land and in a place that was somewhat recognizable.

He collapses against the trench wall, confident that Blake will watch their backs while he tends to his hand. It's throbbing with every beat of his heart and bleeding freely. There's grime and other substances coating the wound that Will doesn't want to think about.

Blake leans across from him on the opposite wall. "Your hand alright?"

"Put it through an effing German," Will hisses as he pours water from his canteen over his hand to wash it out as best he can. The tepid water stings the wound but it's better than nothing.

“Here, let me see.”

Blake comes closer, reaching out expectantly. Will nearly pulls away out of instinct but fights the urge and lets the boy take his injured hand in his own. He was used to Blake’s tactile nature by this point. He feels more than he sees Blake's wince of sympathy.

“Bloody hell, got you good, didn’t it?” He mumbles, unbothered by the blood leaking onto his fingers. He whips out a handkerchief from his pocket and wipes some of the dirt away from the wound, his touch gentle. The tenderness of his actions, the softness of his emotions, leaves Will feeling flushed and jittery. His heart races in his chest against his will.

“Give us your bandages.” Blake makes a grabbing motion and Will huffs, pulling his field gauze from his webbing. He watches Blake tear open the roll and wind the thin material over his hand, tying it tightly. Blood seeps through the gauze straight away, but there‘s nothing else they can do.

“There, all set,” Blake says, leaning back to admire his handiwork. He lets go of Will’s hand, almost reluctantly. “You'll be wanking again in no time." He mimics the motion with his hand on his rifle, a roguish grin on his face.

Will lets out a breathy chuckle at the boy's cheek, despite the pain. "Wrong hand.”

Blake laughs and it does nothing to hide the reddening of his cheeks.

 _You’re bloody killing me, Sco_.

Will’s chest fills with warmth, and he has to look away. His hand closes over the bandage unconsciously.

Their banter falls flat soon enough, their situation sinking in once more. Blake readies his rifle and moves off to inspect the area. Will heaves himself off the wall and follows close behind, trying not to let the throbbing in his hand distract him as he raises his rifle on his forearm, giving the impression of alertness.

Blake comes across a smoking brazier full of white coal dust and kicks it over, embers floating into the air around them. The implication was clear.

“They’re not long gone,” Will observes.

They make their way down the comms trench, rifles up and at the ready, bayonets pointed forward. They meet no resistance, the silence remaining the further they go in. It leaves Will disoriented, having to rely more and more on Blake’s psyche to keep steady.

They reach a dead end at the mouth of the comms leading into the secondary trench. Taking another route leads them to a similar blockade further down. It’s impassable, dirt, rubble, and debris towering above them. The German trenches were all but destroyed. Will can’t help but think it was deliberate. It makes him feel herded.

Blake points out the mouth of a dugout directly to their right. “This might be a way through.” He clicks on his torch, straps it to his webbing, and makes his way slowly into the dark doorway, rifle raised in front of him.

Will watches him go, dread filling his gut. The gaping maw of the dugout was like the jaws of some great beast, ready to swallow him whole.

Will shakes himself. They have no choice. He tries to force away the foreboding feeling as he clicks on his torch and follows Blake once more.

The Germans’ feat of engineering was remarkable.

The dugout is massive. Their torches sweep over a whole barracks area carved out of the chalky earth—the skeletal frames of the empty beds casting haunting shadows on the white walls.

“They built all this,” Blake breathes in slight awe.

_Beds! Bloody hell, they get a fucking palace compared to us!_

Will can’t help but agree. The bloody Hun got to enjoy near-lavish accommodations while they stew in muddy trenches on the British lines. He curses the fairness of it all.

They move through the room, their torchlights sweeping over the area. There’s writing on the walls, phrases and words that Will could just passively translate. Helmets have been left on bare beds and shredded canvas sacks hang from the ceiling. The place was abandoned in a hurry.

Will’s light catches on a photo pinned to one of the beds—someone’s wife and child. It sends a chill up Will’s spine. He has to look away or else be consumed with conflicting emotions he’d rather not face in the dark German barracks.

Noise from across the room catches his attention and Will sees Blake rooting through some supplies left behind at the edge of the room, his curiosity burning in the dim light. He goes to join they boy and they make their way into the officer’s quarters at the back. Will spots a tunnel that leads out of the room, nothing but empty darkness beyond.

“Here’s our way,” he motions to the doorway, heading over to it. He flashes his torch down the tunnel’s expanse. It barely makes a dent in the darkness. The somewhat caustic smell of hard rock and dry, chalky earth wafts from the entrance. Will swallows back the memories it stirs in him.

“Sco, how ‘bout this?”

Will turns and sees Blake sat on one of the beds, one still with a mattress. He bounces himself, raising at eyebrow and grinning as the springs squeak in response. Will smirks at the boy’s antics, his childish glee contagious. They both startle as a large rat wiggles its way onto a sack suspended above them.

“Bloody hell. Even their rats are bigger than ours.”

Will grimaces and moves off to investigate the boxes stacked in the corner of the room.

“What do you think’s in the bags?” Blake muses, hunger shooting through him.

“You cannot be that hungry,” Will drawls.

The boy starts to internally debate the merit of tearing the greasy sack open to see if what’s inside is edible and Will is tempted to call him out on it.

While Blake’s following the rat’s acrobats on the beams above them, something among the boxes in the corner catches Will’s eye. It’s a crate full of tins labelled ‘Fleischkonserve’. Canned meat. He grabs one up, surprised to find it unopened and full.

Blake immediately focuses on him. “What is it?”

Will grins, tossing the boy the tin. “Boche dog meat,” he jokes.

Blake makes a face.

_Wonder if Boche dog meat is better than the dog shit they give us?_

“What’s in the other boxes?” the boy asks instead and Will smirks as he heads over to check. Something else catches his eye, though. A flash in his torchlight.

He freezes, stomach dropping.

Blake’s voice rings out. “What’s wrong?”

“Trip wire,” Will croaks, mouth dry. He keeps still, not daring to breath too heavily.

Blake’s alarm is sharp as he stands, freezing when Will holds a hand out to him.

“Do _not_ move,” Will warns, heart beating rapidly in his chest.

“Where is it?” Blake hisses.

Will motions with his torch, the light illuminating the thin wire hovering above the ground. “It goes from here to the door.”

The boy’s breath quickens in the silence, his understanding growing as he spots the hidden wire.

They both jump at a loud bang—“Jesus!” Blake curses. The rat and sack have fallen from the ceiling, the rodent making a break for the door.

Will’s heart leaps into his throat.

He barely registers Blake moving forward to stop the rat before there’s a blinding light, a deafening roar, and the world comes crashing down around him.

The world is dark. There’s a crushing weight pressing down on him, all around him. Dust is clogging his nose, his mouth, his eyes. It is impossible to breath. He opens his mouth to suck in air, but all it does is invite more dirt down his throat. He screams, desperately calling for help, and he inhales more dust. He gags, his breath stuttering. He tries to claw his way out, but his body refuses to budge, his fingers scrambling uselessly beside him.

Everything stops.

The next thing he is aware of is someone shaking him into consciousness. The weight is lifted from him, his chest relieved, and he sucks in a startled, tremulous breath. He immediately chokes, inhaling more dust down his throat, and he coughs in earnest.

Wh—Where was he? Was he back in the pit? He must be. There’s been a collapse. That has to be it. They’re digging him out. He needs to get out—he needs to _breathe_ —

“—co! Sco! You have to stand up! Stand up!” Someone was shouting in his face, sheer terror rolling off of them. They were yanking on his clothes, pulling him from the rubble.

Blake. Blake—it was Blake. He wasn’t in the pit. He was with Blake. German trenches. Bunker. Tripwire.

The boy is hauling him to his feet. Will scrambles for purchase.

“Up!” Blake commands him. “UP!”

Will can’t see. There’s dust in his eyes, caking them shut. He’s still choking, hacking, retching. He can hardly breathe. He fumbles, trying to bring his feet underneath him. Debris trips him. He grabs on to Blake’s arm for purchase.

Blake physically pulls Will to his feet, dragging him forward and placing Will's hand on his shoulder. Will is still trying to blink past the dust, Blake's torch a dim light under the film.

"Keep hold of me, alright Sco? You keep hold of me!"

And then Blake's leading him through the tunnel. Will grabs on to the material of the boy's jerkin to keep from being left behind. He can't see two inches in front of him and his panicked mind reaches out to latch on to Blake's. It was a whirlwind of adrenaline-fueled thoughts of _Get out get out this way it has to be this way it's all coming down we need to get out_. The sound of earth groaning and cracking and spitting dust and rock fills his ears—it was deafening.

—There’s a flash of a tunnel—torchlight jerking along the walls—dust raining down from the ceiling as the world shook—a hand out of the corner of his eye, tight on his shoulder as he pushes through—

The images leave him, plunging him into darkness once more. He bites out a cry of surprise, disoriented and confused. What was that? What was he seeing? His other hand shoots up and latches on to Blake’s other shoulder, desperate to be grounded in the chaos.

Blake suddenly pulls up short, alarmed, shoving Will back behind him. "Whoa! Stop! Stop! It’s a mineshaft!”

His voice echoes amid the noise, a sudden openness to the space they were in.

“We’ll have to jump. Come on!”

Blake moves and then he’s gone, slipping through Will’s fingers. Will stumbles forward but catches himself, shuffling back.

“You’re going to have to jump, Sco!” Blake calls out to him. “Just jump! I’ll catch you!”

Will shakes his head, anxious and frozen in panic. “I can’t—I can’t see!” He stutters. He doesn’t know how far to jump, doesn’t know how big the mineshaft is. He could fall, straight to his death. He can’t—He can’t do this. He can’t do this—

He can feel the tears streaming down his face, griming his cheeks with dust and debris. The walls continue to groan and shake around them, but Will can’t move. He’s paralyzed. Blake’s desperation spikes across from him.

“You need to trust me!” Blake yells at him, frantic. “I will catch you! I promise! Now jump!”

_I’ve got you, I’ve got you, Sco, don’t worry, I’ll catch you._

Blake’s absolute certainty centers him and he takes a shuddering breath. Going on blind faith, Will leaps forwards towards the sound of Blake’s voice, the strong presence of his mind. He feels weightless, some part of him aware for only a moment of the open abyss of the shaft, before his feet hit the ground once more. His foot slips, and his heart leaps into his throat—but Blake catches him and yanks him away from the edge.

Will clings to Blake once more as they move down the tunnel. Somewhere behind them there’s a loud crash, the sound of earth collapsing.

“Don’t let go of me! Don’t let go!” Blake repeats, over and over.

_Don’t let go, we’re almost out, don’t let go, I’ll get us out, don’t worry, I’ve got you—wait there’s—_

“Light! There’s Light!”

Blake pulls him forward with renewed vigor, and before Will knows it they’re crawling under fallen beams and into fresh air. It’s so startling—the lack of enclosure, breathable air. Blake has let go of him and Will takes a moment to lean on the entrance of the mine, bent double, trying to breath.

He can feel Blake’s urge to keep moving, but Will needs a minute. “Stop… _stop_ ,” he gasps. “Just…Just let me stand.”

He stands and coughs, trying to clear his airway. He rubs at his gritted eyes, trying to get some of his vision back. It works just enough for him to see his surroundings.

“Dirty _bastards_ ,” Blake yells. He’s brimming with anger and hate, fear still clinging to him. He reaches out and tugs on Will’s sleeve. “C’mon, Sco, we need to move.”

He’s right, they can’t sit outside of a collapsing mineshaft. Will’s vision has cleared and he can make out a small rise ahead of them. He gathers himself as best he can, bringing his rifle up once more and follows Blake over the incline.

They’re met with a vast quarry—a graveyard of massive German guns and small artillery, damaged beyond repair. There are mountains of spent shell casings piled around them.

“Jesus,” Blake breathes. He sweeps his rifle around, looking for threats. Will’s not concerned.

While Blake keeps his watch, Will makes his way to the top of the berm and falls to the ground, shaky and exhausted. His body aches, bruised and tenderized, and his throat and lungs feel scratchy and compressed. His hand gives a sharp twinge, like an unhappy reminder—bandages dirty and ruined.

He rips his helmet off and pulls his canteen loose, pouring it’s entire contents into his face.

“Dust... so much dust in my eyes,” he babbles. He washes out his eyes, scrubs them with frantic fingers. His water runs out and in a childish fit of rage he feels like throwing his canteen away from him. He hears Blake come closer, his concern prominent as the boy holds out his own canteen to Will.

“Here, have some of mine,” he insists gently. Will accepts, taking a gulp of the metallic water to clear his clogged throat. Blake squats down next to him, resting.

“I wish I’d shot that rat now,” the boy jests, relief beginning to lighten him.

Will doesn’t see it that way.

He can’t help what he says next. He’s tired, and shaken, and he bites out, “And I wish you’d picked some other bloody idiot,” before he can think otherwise.

His sharp words have an effect on Blake, whose emotions cloud with hurt. “What?”

“Why in God’s name did you have to choose me?” Will grounds out, the harshness of his voice exacerbated by his congested throat.

He reaches for the inside of his breast pocket, withdrawing his tobacco tin with trembling hands and checking the contents, making sure his photos and letters were safe. He tries to ignore the dejection coming off of Blake.

“I didn’t know what I was picking you for.” Blake’s voice is defensive, plaintive.

Will explodes. “No, you didn’t! You never do!” He breaths angrily. “You didn’t fucking listen to me, Blake! You never listen! We both could have been killed back there!”

(He doesn’t know why he’s lashing out. Its like the words were clawing their way out of his chest, up his throat, spewing hot over his tongue. He can feel the dust all over him, smell the chalk, remember the feel of rubble caving him in. It brings unpleasant memories to his mind without his consent. His hands won’t stop shaking.)

Blake flinches, anger now mixing with his hurt. “That’s not fair! Neither of us knew that was going to happen!” Will watches his jaw clench, his eyes narrow. “But alright, if you want to go back, then go back. Nothing’s stopping you. You can go all the way bloody home if you want.”

The jab hits hard. Will gives him a sharp look, stowing the tin back in his pocket. “ _Don’t_.”

There must have been something in his eyes—or maybe Blake noticed his shaking—because the younger man winces and Will can sense his immediate regret.

They sit in silence for a moment, Will trying to get his breathing back to normal and blinking the grit from his swollen eyes.

Blake is calmer the next time he speaks. “Look, I didn’t know what I was picking you for. I thought they were going to send us back up the line, or for food, or something. I thought it was going to be something easy, like always. I never thought it would be _this_.”

He waits a beat, looking at Will.

“So do you want to go back?”

Will looks back. Blake’s eyes are beseeching. The boy is terrified of him saying yes and leaving him to complete the mission on his own.

_He can’t leave me, please don’t let him leave me._

Will sighs, his anger softening.

He wasn’t going to leave Blake any time soon.

“Just fire the fucking flare.”

They leave the quarry behind, making their way through a burnt copse of trees before exiting out onto a green hillside.

Blake's rambling on about Wilko, trying in his own way to ease the tension from earlier. His emotions are a balm to Will’s frazzled nerves. His hands have stopped shaking by the time Blake finishes his story.

Two planes fly overhead, their engines roaring in the distance. It was the same two they saw in No Man's Land, finishing their patrol of the area and heading back to the British lines.

"Heading back home," Will mumbles. He remembers the maps laid out in front of Erinmore. "I wonder what they saw."

Blake's lets out a quiet hum. They continue ahead, rifles held ready in front of them.

"Watch the ridge lines,” Blake mutters, eyes scanning the terrain. Will mentally pushes out again over the rolling hills, finding no one ahead. He sniffs and rubs his nose with his sleeve before Blake can see the blood.

They walk in silence. There’s a heavy awkwardness between them from his earlier outburst and Will feels shame for how he behaved. He's tries to lighten the mood.

"Well that’s your medal sorted then," Will says lightly. Blake starts.

"What do ya mean?" the boy questions.

Will raises an eyebrow at him. “‘Lance Corporal Blake showed unusual valor in rescuing a comrade from certain death’,” he recites, “blah, blah, blah.”

Blake tilts his head, surprise filling him. “You reckon?”

Will looks back at him, face sincere. “I do.”

Blake is pleased at this, his chest puffing up. Will grins at him.

“Well, that’d be nice,” Blake muses. “Since you bloody lost yours.”

Will’s rolls his eyes. This again.

“I didn’t lose mine,” he admits. Might as well tell the boy the truth, if only to get him to shut up. 

Blake’s bewilderment hits him. “What happened to it, then?”

He wishes he hadn’t brought it up. “Why do you care?” he counters.

“Why do you not?” Blake shoots back.

Will thinks about not answering. He’s not exactly ashamed, it was just a fucking medal, one that represented a time in his life he’d sooner forget. He doesn’t think Blake would understand. 

“I swapped it with a French captain,” he confesses.

Blake furrows his brow in confusion. “Swapped it? For what?”

Will shrugs his shoulder. “Bottle of wine.” He had hoped it would dull the ceaseless thoughts around him. He had wanted peace after months of hell. All he got was a massive hangover and some vivid nightmares for his troubles.

“What did you do that for?” Blake berates him. Will can feel his judgement.

Will snorts. “I was thirsty,” he says, amused at himself.

“What a waste,” Blake says mournfully. “You should have taken it home with you, Sco. Given it to your sister or something.”

Will doesn’t respond. He feels himself closing off.

“Men have died for that.”

Oh, Will is aware. He swallows an acidic response and keeps walking.

Blake doesn’t stop. “If I got a medal, I’d take it back home. Why didn’t you just take it home, Sco—”

Will can’t take it anymore. “Look it’s just a bit of bloody tin! It doesn’t make you special, it doesn’t make any difference to anyone.”

Bitterness leaves a sour taste in his mouth. He shifts his rifle up, keeping his gaze ahead so he doesn’t have to see Blake’s expression. The boy is sheepish, hesitant now.

Will can feel Blake wrestling with himself before he speaks again, simply saying, “Yes it does.”

_It means you survived. It means you’re still here._

Will doesn’t look back at him.

“And it’s not just a bit of tin,” the younger man corrects him. “It’s got a ribbon on it. Makes it look fancy.”

A surprised laugh escapes Will and he shakes his head in exasperation. Bloody hell, this boy.

The humor leaves him, though. He stops, feeling Blake pull up behind him, and turns to him, exhausted.

“I didn’t want to go home,” he utters, a hollowness in his chest. He feels the years of absence, of wistfulness and the desperate need to see his family in that moment. “I wasn’t—right, after the Somme. I’m still—“ He stops, clears his throat. “I couldn’t go back. And knowing I wouldn’t be able to stay. The thought of leaving them again, that they might never see me—” he chokes, fighting past the tight lump in the back of his throat. 

It was a hard thing to admit, but Blake needs to understand. Not all of them found going home as easy as him. Especially those who knew this war was as good as a death sentence for them. 

He turns without saying anything more, leaving Blake behind to catch up. The younger man’s guilt follows him.

It's sometime later that they come across the remains of dilapidated structures. Will has had time to shore himself up, to swallow down his melancholy and push his emotions away. Now was not the time. He needed to focus on the mission. He stops in the collapsed entrance of a walled garden, his breath catching as his gaze lands on trees littering the ground. Their trunks were splintered and torn, hacked through. Their branches, heavy with full bloom, lay crumbled on the ground.

Just more evidence of the German’s retreat, of the careless destruction they leave in their wake.

“Jesus. They’ve chopped then all down,” Will mutters. Blake comes up behind him, his guilt turning to distaste, then recognition, at the sight.

“Cherries,” Blake says, surprised. He reaches down and picks a blossom on one of the trees, holding it between his fingers. “Lamberts," he observes, then shrugs. "They might be Dukes, hard to tell when they aren’t in fruit.”

Will hums. They begin to make their way through the orchard and he takes care to step lightly over the petals on the ground. “What’s the difference?”

Blake glances at him, hesitant, but continues when he sees Will’s obvious interest. “Well…people think there’s one type, but there’s lots of them—Cuthberts, Queen Annes, Montmorencys. Sweet ones, sour ones...”

Blake's voice is wry as he lists the different kinds of cherries. Will can’t help but be endeared.

“Which ones do you have?” he asks. Blake has mentioned their small family orchard countless times.

“We grow a few Montmorencys, some Stellas. Mum planted a Morello before we left. It’ll be grown in a few years.” There’s a bittersweet smile on the boy’s face as they walk, his hand trailing on a few branches. Will feels his pang of nostalgia as his own. “This time of year it looks like it’s been snowing, blossom everywhere. And then in May, we have to pick them. Me and Joe. Takes the whole day.”

Will listens attentively. He steps over a fallen tree and comes closer to younger man until they are walking alongside each other. Blake is twirling the blossom he picked in his fingers, his brow furrowed.

“So, these ones all goners?” Will assumes.

Blake shakes his head. “Oh no, they’ll grow again when the stones rot. You’ll end up with more trees than before.”

Will contemplates this. He looks around at the felled trees, the crumbling walls. Maybe.

He startles when a hand is shoved under his nose, a blossom held up to him.

“For you,” Blake declares softly. His grin is playful but Will can feel his flush of embarrassment.

_I wish I could give him more, but this will have to do for now._

Will can feel his face heating up. He wordlessly takes the flower in his uninjured hand, his fingers sliding against Blake’s with the barest of touches that sends a slight shock through him. He holds the blossom like its delicate, precious. Its small and light in his palm, its bright color a stark contrast to his dirty hand.

“Maybe it can be a reminder,” Blake murmurs— _of me_ following closely in his mind. He gives Will a shy smile before he walks ahead to the end of the orchard.

Will runs his finger over the petals, feeling the velvety smoothness under his touch. He takes out his tin, carefully placing the blossom inside amongst the photographs. He doesn’t think about why as he shoves it back into his uniform and follows Blake.

When they reach the gate, they see the remains of a farmhouse. It’s in ruins, the roof caving in on itself and the windows and doors missing. The clapboard barn behind the house is barely standing.

They’re a little further out, but Will can sense no presence in or near the buildings. There was an ominous quiet to the area that sets his teeth on edge.

“We should go around,” he suggests, something in him telling him they should avoid this place.

Blake shakes his head. “We need to check it out. It looks abandoned, but we need to make sure. Stay on me, yeah?”

Before Will can protest, Blake starts making his way around the pond in front of the farmhouse, rifle raised and ready. Will has no choice but to follow him. He’ll let Blake check it out for his own peace of mind. Maybe they can find some supplies while they were there.

They split up to check the buildings, Will going inside while Blake checks the perimeter. He does his best to ignore the dead dog lying on the path up to the house.

The whole place feels off—there’s a distinct edge of disquiet that makes Will’s skin crawl. It pervades each room he enters, the floor boards creaking under his feet as he passes from doorway to doorway. Broken glass and plates crunch under his boots as he takes in the ransacked home—evidence of soldiers having passed through recently carved into every surface.

He moves from room to room, going through the motions. He sees Blake out of the back window, can feel his unease.

Will sees nothing but a ravaged, crumbling shack. No food, no supplies. He stops when he sees a child’s doll lying discarded on the floor, its eyes burnt holes. He looks away, jaw clenching.

Blake meets him in what used to be the kitchen.

“Did you find any food?” the boy asks. Will has to resist the urge to roll his eyes.

“No," he answers distractedly. A draft blows through the house and Will’s skin breaks out in goosebumps. "I don’t like this place." An uncomfortable presence hangs over the house like a suffocating blanket. Something terrible happened here. Will can feel it in his bones. It makes him feel ill.

He moves out the back door and heads for the barn, needing to get away from the house. It’s trashed as well, debris strewn about and the stench of dead cows hanging the air. He glances out into the pasture and is surprised to see one of the bovine still alive, mooing and roaming among the dead. Curious, he checks the buckets lying near his feet and is amazed to discover milk in one of them. He dips a hand in, bringing it to his mouth. He shudders in near ecstasy. It’s been months since he’s tasted anything as good as fresh milk.

Blake exists the house behind him, wrestling with the map.

“Map says we get over that ridge and it’s a straight shot to Écoust,” the younger man informs him, gesturing to the south of them.

Will grunts in acknowledgement. He grabs his empty canteen and fills it with as much milk as he can, watching the white liquid pour into the lip with delight.

The drone of engines in the distance grabs Will’s attention and he feels Blake perk up as well. He caps his canteen once its full and stands up, going to the barn door to get a better look at the planes flying overhead. They were quite a spectacle to behold. Two British fighters against one German engine.

“Is that our friends again?” Blake asks, mesmerized.

Will nods. “Looks like it. Dogfight.”

“Who’s winning?”

“Us, I think,” Will surmises. “Two on one.”

As they watch, it doesn’t take long for the British fighters to down the German, the enemy plane trailing smoke as it descends rapidly.

Right towards them.

They tear out of the barn as the plane barrels towards them. Will manages to grab Blake at the last minute, forcing the boy to the ground and throwing himself on top of him. The plane crashes into the barn behind them with a loud explosion that makes Will’s ears ring painfully, debris flying over them.

Will coughs, disoriented. He tries to find his bearings in the chaos.

Blake pushes him off and Will watches distantly as he gets to his feet and runs full tilt towards the plane. Will can make out the sound of screaming coming from the wreckage, pain and terror choking him in his confusion.

Then he realizes—the pilot is still alive. He’s trapped in the burning plane.

Blake was at the cockpit now, trying to free the man. Will scrambles to his feet and rushes to help. The flames lick at his face and hands, but he manages to tear open the pilot’s strap, allowing him and Blake to wrench the man free. Together they drag him writhing and screaming across the yard, dropping him when they are far enough away. Will smells burnt cloth and seared flesh and he gags. All he can feel is the man’s agony, his legs quaking with phantom pains that weren’t his own.

The pilot begs for help. Will can do nothing but stare down at him, caught up in his distress. His breathing has increased to match the injured man’s.

The pilot’s thoughts were slurred with the static of pain and fear.

— _meine Gott, meine Gott, hilf, es tut weh, es tut weh, bitte, töte mich nicht, oh Gott, bitte_ —

"We should put him out of his misery,” Will says numbly.

Blake looks at him and when their eyes meet Will knows that’s not what they're going to do.

“No. Get him some water. He needs water,” the boy insists as he positions the pilot’s head in his lap with gentle hands.

Will turns and stumbles for the pump. Anything to stop the man’s suffering, to stop this pain, he thinks distantly. He leaves Blake whispering reassurances to the German as the pilot thrashes on the ground, removing his helmet to use as a basin.

He’s not taken a dozen steps when a sudden, instinctive hyperarousal washes over him, pulling him up short. It was foreign, outside of his own frazzled mind, and it makes his adrenaline spike rapidly, his heart hammer in his chest. He barely has time to examine it before its being replaced with such savage intent that the air is punched right out of his lungs. There’s an exclamation behind him.

—In his mind’s eye he sees the flash of a knife—feels the startled alarm and surprise as his own— _Wait! No, no, NO—_ feels a sharp pain in his side—

He doesn’t think. He turns, brings his rifle up, and fires.


	2. Écoust

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They just need to get to the Devons. They weren’t far now, the convoy could practically take them there. They just need to deliver the message. They can do this.
> 
> (Things play out a little differently after the farmhouse.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am. SO SORRY THIS TOOK SO LONG!
> 
> Seriously, guys, I have no idea why this took as long as it did to write. Life got in the way, as it often does, but this chapter FOUGHT ME SO MUCH LIKE WTF? I rewrote the beginning so many times that I had no idea what I was doing for a while. THEN where to go from there just completely effing threw me. I was lost for a good while. If it wasn't for all of my glorious friends in the Officer's Club and the equally glorious people WHO COMMENTED LIKE OMG I LOVE YOU ALL--I have no idea how much longer it would have taken. BUT. I finally have it here for you lovelies. Is it good? I have no idea. I still feel a bit unhappy with it. But I didn't want to sit on it anymore. It was growing stagnant and I need to move on with the story. 
> 
> So here it is! I hope you enjoy!

Will fires two shots in rapid succession.

The gunfire is deafening. The recoil from his rifle jars his shoulder hard. The pilot jerks—once, twice—and crumbles to the ground with a cut-off cry, the knife Will had seen flying from the man’s hand and landing on the ground a few feet away. It glints in the sunlight before disappearing into the grass.

It’s in that moment that Will‘s connection with the man’s mind snaps like frayed rope. He feels his mind balk at the unnatural sensation, and he has to fight to detach himself. Images continue to flash in front of his eyes but they are dispersing like smoke, leaving nothing but what he sees in front of him and it has him disoriented and confused. He can’t be sure of where he is— _who he is_ —in that moment—it’s all _blending together and he doesn’t_ —

“ _Sco_!”

—Will starts violently. He tears his gaze away from the pilot—Blake is standing a few yards away, unsteady on his feet. A sharp, foreign pain has Will dropping his gun and rushing to Blake’s side before he can even process what’s happening.

“Blake!” Will shouts, grabbing the boy when he reaches him. “Are you alright? Where are you hurt?”

“I—I don’t—“ the boy stammers. He’s in a daze, swaying where he stands. His hand is clasped on his right side and Will’s stomach drops.

“Let me see,” he demands. He moves Blake’s trembling hand out of the way to see blood seeping through his uniform, a tear in the fabric on his lower right side.

“Ok. Ok,” Will breathes, trying his best not to panic. “Alright. Let’s—let’s sit, yeah?” He grabs Blake’s arm gently and leads the boy stumbling over to the back step of the farmhouse. Blake sits heavily, gasping in pain as whatever injury he has is jarred. His skin has gone pallid and Will can feel how scared he is, can hear how his thoughts are becoming a jumbled mess of building hysteria. He kneels down in front of the boy, putting a comforting hand on his knee.

“I’m going to see how bad it is, alright?” Will says gently. Blake gives a shaky nod and Will takes that as his go-ahead. He quickly removes the boy’s gear, tossing them to the side before undoing Blake’s uniform and soiled tunic and lifting his sweater, pulling the material away from Blake’s side.

Right above Blake’s hip is a small stab wound, weeping blood down the boy’s pale skin and soaking the edge of his trousers. He can’t tell how serious it is, can’t tell how deep the penetration is. He shoves his panic and fear aside, allowing his training to take over. He needs to keep it together for Blake.

“We need to stop the bleeding,” Will tells him, voice surprisingly steady. He reaches for his webbing but, remembering they used his bandages on his hand, goes for Blake’s pack instead, pulling out the boy’s field dressing.

“How bad is it?” Blake asks. He’s gone whiter in the last few seconds. Shock, most likely. He’s trying to lean down to see the damage but Will gently pushes him back up.

“I can’t tell yet,” Will answers briskly. He wads up the dressing before pressing the whole thing to the boy’s side. Blake yelps and shifts away, but Will grabs on to him, keeping him firmly in place. The piercing sting in his own side, a shadow the boy’s pain through their connection, has him gritting his teeth to hold back a groan.

He holds the dressing down, putting as much pressure as he can on the wound despite how much it makes his hand throb. Blake tries to pull away again with a whine but Will shushes him, doing his best to calm him. Blake reaches for Will’s arm and grabs it with clenching fingers, needing something to hold on to. Will lets him. Blake‘s breath shudders as he fights the pain and Will doing his best not to have a full break down in front of the younger man.

“How do you feel, Blake?” The boy’s dizziness and pain is beginning to affect Will and he shakes his head to try and dispel it. Blake hasn’t passed out yet, which is a good sign.

The younger man blinks sluggishly and swallows, his Adam’s apple working. “I think...I think I’m alright. Just a bit dizzy, is all. Think it’s the adrenaline.”

Probably the blood loss, actually, but Will doesn’t correct him. He nods instead, concerned as the dressing gradually turns red. Will’s seen plenty of abdominal wounds by this point—the bleeding was too slow for it to be serious, but the boy was still losing blood.

He needs to see the extent of the injury. As carefully as he can he pulls the dressing away from Blake’s side, examining the wound before replacing it once more. From what he can tell the knife must have gone in, but only by an inch or so. It was right above Blake’s hip, a small gash from a weapon that was meant to gut him. The boy was extremely lucky—if Will hadn’t reacted when he did, Blake could be bleeding out from a serious stomach wound right now.

Will thinks it’s best to be up front in this situation. “It looks like the knife went in, but not very far. You’re bleeding quite a bit, but...I don’t think it’s that bad.”

“Yeah, ok,” Blake responds faintly. Will can feel how tired he is. The dressing is completely soaked. He can’t tell if the bleeding has slowed or not and they don’t have any more bandages. He decides to use what he’s got. He’s reaches up to undo the buttons on his tunic one-handed, pulling his scarf from around his neck. It’s far from clean, but it will have to do. He quickly replaces the soiled gauze with the green material, pressing it in hard and causing Blake to groan.

“No, Sco, your sister made that for you,” the boy protests in dismay.

Will shakes his head. “Doesn’t matter, Blake,” he chides.

Blake’s shaking has improved in the last few minutes but his parlor still remains concerning. He’s breathing easier and sitting up straighter, though, so Will feels a small bit of hope. He squeezes Blake’s knee encouragingly, though he has to make sure to loosen his hold so it’s not the death grip from before.

“Bloody _bastard_ ,” Blake suddenly curses, startling Will. He looks up and sees the younger man scowling over his shoulder at the pilot.

“Why would fucking do that? We were trying to help him!” Blake’s voice is strangled with anger and hurt.

Will doesn’t turn around. He keeps his gaze focused on Blake’s pale throat. He can still feel the echoes of the pilot’s desperation—his senseless fear that drove him to react the way he did, lashing out like a trapped animal. The bitter tang of it still lingers in the back of Will’s throat.

It may not have made sense to Blake, but to Will—

“He was scared,” Will whispers, drawing Blake’s attention. “In pain. He thought we were going to hurt him. People are capable of a lot of things when they’re like that.”

His voice sounds strange to his own ears—distant. Something pulls at him and he can’t fight it this time when he turns to look over his shoulder, at the evidence of what _he’s_ capable of.

“Well, fuck him,” Blake’s voice draws him back. Concern mixes with a grimace of pain as he puts a hand on Will’s arm. ”Thank you, Sco. You saved my life.”

His eyes are wide and earnest—embers from the wreckage raining down on him like snow and making him seem ethereal. Will avoids looking at him. The boy’s sincerity washes over him like a cool rain shower and he shivers as it reacts to the sick feeling in his gut.

“Nothing to thank me for,” he insists. He moves the scarf over and is pleased to see the bleeding has slowed, the blood starting to clot. “You did the same for me. Back in the bunker.”

Blake huffs. “Still. He would have _gutted_ me if you hadn’t—” the boy stops, choking. He swallows and looks away, shame welling up in him. Will’s brows furrows.

“Blake—”

“I’m so fucking _stupid_ ,” Blake hisses. Will flinches, the shame and insecurity and hurt hitting him like a slap to the face. “I should have listened to you, Sco. Should have put him out his bloody misery.” 

Will stops, shocked, before shaking his head. He places his other hand on Blake’s uninjured side, his thumb soothing across bare skin and it makes Blake shiver, momentarily distracting the boy as his mind seems to stutter to a stop at the touch.

“No, Blake,” Will says, looking up the boy with grave insistence. “You wanted to help. There’s nothing wrong with that. It’s just.” He pauses, then shrugs helplessly. “Sometimes, it doesn’t work the way we want it to.”

Blake bites his lip, his eyes watering. “I’m sorry you had to do it,” he blurts.

Will is confused for all of a heartbeat before the boy’s guilt floods him and he understands.

Will sighs. He almost says “It’s alright, it’s not the first time”, but he stops himself. He has a feeling that Blake wouldn’t take that so well—no matter that he was at the Somme. He hasn’t spoken about it with the boy before and it was best not to bring it up now.

“I don’t regret it,” he admits instead, like he’s confessing a great sin. Blake’s eyes widen with surprise. Will tries not to look away. “And I would do it again if it meant you lived.”

Will doesn’t know what kind of expression is on his face, but it probably borders on unhinged. Yet Blake doesn’t flinch away—doesn’t pull back, doesn’t fill with caution or disgust. If anything, the surge of fondness and warmth and... adoration, astounds Will. The little smile in the corner of his mouth, despite his wet eyes, fills Will’s chest with something soft—it nearly chokes him.

Blake sniffs and, instead of replying, leans down with a wince and brings his forehead to Will’s. Will freezes. His breath stutters at the look in the boy’s eyes—his emotions so full of understanding, no judgement to be found. It shocks Will so much he has to close his eyes and force back the tears that want to come, swallowing past a hot lump in his throat. His chest feels full. The utter relief of it all leaves him feeling lighter.

Will moves his hand from Blake’s uninjured side and brings it up to the back of his neck, just to hold the boy steady—or to keep himself steady, he doesn’t know which. Embers dance in the air around them as the barn collapses in on itself under the still burning flames. A low, insistent hum is building in the back of Will’s mind, like a reminder of something important, but he ignores it.

Blake shifts and his sudden melancholy makes Will’s heart heavy— _I wish he knew. I wish I could tell him how much he means to me. I’m too much of a bloody coward._

Will squeezes the back of Blake’s neck, trying in his own way to convey without words that _No. No you’re not_. If Blake was a coward, then so was he. Many times the words have threatened to spill from his own lips, and each time he holds them back, swallowing them down like they never existed to begin with. But they do and Will would give anything to be brave just once and tell Blake how much the boy means to him—as a friend and…as something more.

He just—now is not the time. Not here—not while they’re rushing against time, across German-infested French countryside to save hundreds of men from certain death. There was no room for confessions past the urgency.

But—he’ll take this moment, and any other like it. As long as he can hold Blake like this, have him near, have him _breathing_ —then he can be content for the time being.

It’s then that something—something bright and strong and overwhelming—builds in his head. It rushes out of him like a wave, so fast he would hardly have noticed if he hadn’t been focusing on it. There’s a flash behind his closed lids and suddenly...he sees himself. As he is now—kneeling down in front of Blake, the silhouette of the burning barn behind him, eyes closed. He has an up close view of his furrowed brow and his strained expression and with a start he realizes—

He’s seeing all of this through Blake’s eyes.

His eyes fly open and he pulls back in shock. The view fades from his mind and all he sees is Blake watching him with a soft, concerned expression. The image is fast fading from his mind, emotions that he knows are not his also melting away to his own astonished confusion. He doesn’t know what just happened, but his connection with Blake is suddenly vibrant—almost alive in its sudden strength. The feeling of tipping over the edge of something, the anticipation of the drop— _into Blake’s mind, oh god_ —leaves him disoriented.

This...is not the only time it’s happened, either. Now that he’s thinking about it—it’s _been_ happening all day. In the dugout, with Erinmore, he’d seen a glimpse of a man—Blake’s brother, if he had to guess. And in the bunker, as they’d run through the collapsing mine, he’d been nearly blind—yet he’d been able to see, if only briefly, the way ahead of them. And just now, with the pilot—

He blinks hard, images and emotions— _not his own, not his own_ —threatening to play out in his mind’s eye against his will. His breathing starts to increase as the panic rises up.

Blake sees his distress, a question on the tip of his tongue that Will has no idea how to answer. He takes a breath, a sloppy attempt at his breathing exercise, and tries to calm himself—there was no way he could deal with this at the moment. There was...there was no possible way. He’s about to reassure Blake, say something along the lines of, “I’m fine, it’s nothing”, when a voice interrupts them.

“You two alright?”

It startles them both—Will jerks away from Blake so fast he nearly falls as his ass. Blake yelps in shock and moves sharply enough to aggravate his wound, which Will unfortunately feels. Will turns and is shocked to see two British privates standing at the far side of the yard observing them. He hadn’t heard or felt them arrive, so focused on Blake as he had been.

Will’s heartbeat spikes painfully in his chest. Blake’s thought of _How much had they seen?_ only increases his paranoia and without thinking he reaches out, touching the men’s minds—

(He gets a string of information—names to put with the faces; drives and aspirations; thoughts and emotions, both layered and immediate. He swims in their consciousness, searching for intention to harm, to alert an officer, but what he finds is... _surprising_ —a bond between these two men, not unlike his and Blake’s, strengthened by time and want and need—)

Will withdraws slowly, feeling a bit guilty now. He has no doubt in his mind that they are safe, though. These men will do nothing to them.

“Bloody hell, what happened here?” The taller of the two, Atkins, asks, both the privates’ gazes on the burning wreckage of the plane.

Blake’s anger is a sharp, petty thing—exacerbated by the pain at his side. He’s not privy to the information Will is, and it leaves room for suspicion and fear. Blake’s voice is biting as he says, “What does it bloody look like, eh? A fucking plane landed on us!”

Will puts a hand on Blake’s arm, trying to calm him. The tickle in the back of his mind has turned into a sharp twinge and the rest of the men accompanying Parry and Atkins are making themselves known. There are some fifty men surrounding the farmhouse and he is stunned at the fact that he hadn’t felt them coming down the road, with the amount of activity that was now invading his mind. He had been completely preoccupied with Blake. Now that he’s pulled back somewhat his head is now filling with the usual mental noise that he was accustomed to and a headache was promptly making itself known. He’s gone hours without one and he can’t stop the hot resentment that fills him as he is surrounded by others once more. 

He hears Blake sigh, and the boy adopts a calmer tone as he addresses the privates. “What are you doing here, then?”

“Headin’ to the front, mate,” Parry answers, unbothered— _I have Atkins to deal with every day, this bloke’s temper’s nothin’_ —“Passing through when we saw the smoke.”

The smaller private eyes the dead man lying a few feet away, before noticing the stained scarf Will was holding to Blake’s side. “He alright?”

Will looks down, seeing that the green material has darkened slightly, but not nearly as soaked as the gauze had been. He shifts it aside and breathes a sigh of relief that the bleeding has all but stopped. “Yes. He will be.”

“Bloody hun tried to skewer me,” Blake grouses. He doesn’t mention Will having to shoot the man.

Atkins sneers and spits at the German’s body, his vitriol like a furnace. “Fuckin’ rats, the lot of ‘em.”

Parry doesn’t comment, instead digging into his webbing and bringing out a roll of dressing. He comes closer and hands it to Will. “Here, take this. Looks like he needs it more.”

Will takes it appreciatively. “Thank you.”

Parry gives him quirk of a smile. It sits widely on his slim face. He turns and gives his surly companion a stern look. “Oi, hand yours over, too. We’ll get more at the front.”

Atkins makes a show grumbling but hands his over without complaint, his annoyance at Parry only slight.

Will begins to unspool one of the dressings, folding it up as best he can to mimic a patch. Once its decent enough, he removes the scarf and puts the patch over the wound in its place. Blood seeps through immediately, mostly likely from the pull of material and dried blood. Will presses it down without mercy, ignoring Blake’s groan and the sympathy-ache at his side as he fixes it into place.

“Hold this,” he instructs Blake. He waits until the boy is doing as he says before readying the other dressing and beginning to wrap the whole thing around Blake’s abdomen, securing the patch into place.

“I feel much better, Nurse Schofield,” Blake jests once he’s done. His grin is tired but it’s a relieving sight, as is the wink he throws at Will.

Will scoffs. “The thanks I get,” he responds drolly and Blake laughs, wincing almost immediately after.

“Fuck, don’t make me laugh,” Blake grunts, his hand at his side.

Will reaches up to pat the boy’s face, grinning at Blake’s scowl. He turns back to the two privates standing behind them. “Thank you, again.”

Parry waves him off. “Think nothin’ of it.” He eyes Will’s arm— _East Surrey_ — "Whatcha doing all the way out here?”

“Commission from our general,” Blake answers, wincing as he gets used to the bandages. “We’re on our way to the 2nd Devons, just past Écoust.”

Will senses one of the men breaking off from the group in the front and making their way through the house, coming up behind them in the kitchen. The presence was strong, the whisper of thoughts and emotions like the tail end of a turbulent storm. (Done seeing about his men in the front and heading to the back of the house to investigate the smoke—wreckage, he corrects as he comes upon the scene. He is curious about the two lance corporals speaking to his privates, hearing the tail-end of their conversation—)

“Écoust?” the man inquires, his voice deep and lilting with a Scottish accent.

Blake startles—barely stopping himself from yelling _Bloody fuck!_ —and Will has to steady the boy with a hand on his arm so he doesn’t fall off the step. Will just calmly looks up and meets the eyes of a captain. Parry and Atkins helpfully provide a name in their overlapping thoughts.

“What are your orders?” the man—Captain Smith—prompts.

Blake’s response is as quick as any trained soldier—and he’s seemingly unconcerned with his state of undress in the presence of a commanding officer—“We have an urgent message for the 2nd Devons, sir. Orders from General Erinmore to stop tomorrow morning’s attack.”

“It’s a trap, sir,” Will adds. “The German’s have planned it.”

The captain nods, his brow furrowed as his mind races with the information— _I feared something like this could happen_ —

He looks past them at the destruction of the barn, at the dead pilot. “I see you’ve already had an eventful go of it,” he states and Blake’s emotions darken immediately. Will squeezes his arm comfortingly.

Smith eyes Blake’s bandaged torso. “Will you be alright to continue the journey, lance corporal?”

Blake straightens as best he can, his pride a delicate thing. “Yes, sir. I’ll manage.”

Smith raises an eyebrow skeptically, but concedes. “Right. Come with me then. We’re passing through Écoust. We can take you some of the way.”

“Sir,” they reply in unison. Will is hit with urgency once more as Blake’s thoughts are consumed with his brother and their mission. The anxiety creeps back and Will swallows past a dry throat.

The captain waits for them as Will helps Blake get his uniform sorted—the boy’s whispered “Mother hen” nearly has Will cuffing him upside the head. The letter falls out of Blake’s jacket during the whole process and the boy insists that Will put it in his tin for safekeeping. Will slides the letter amongst his photos, soft petals catching his eye briefly before he closes his tin once more and shoves it back into his pocket. The letter will be safe in the sealed container for now.

He helps his friend to his feet once he’s properly dressed, Blake flinching only a little even though Will can feel that the pain is quite bothersome. Dizziness hits Blake hard once he’s standing fully and Will’s firm grip on his arm prevents him from stumbling too bad. He gathers Blake’s rifle and helmet and hands them over.

“ _Are_ you alright, Blake?” He asks quietly. It feels like the younger man could pass out at any moment.

“I’m fine, Sco. Just—” Blake winces as he shoulders his rifle. “I may be a bit slower, is all.”

Will frowns. Blake, despite his exhaustion and pain, was vibrating with the need to get moving. The boy’s stubbornness was steadfast and Will knows, if he even tried, the younger man will refuse if he suggests getting him to the nearest aid post. Will knows this with upmost certainty. The best thing was for them to continue on and get him checked once they get to the Devons. Will resolves to keep a close eye on him until then.

Parry and Atkins come up behind them, handing Will his gear and he nods to them in thanks. With his helmet secured and rifle shouldered, he motions for Blake to enter the house ahead of him and the boy limps inside without complaint. Will sees him stashing something away in his pack—the bloody scarf.

 _—Sco’s sister made this, can’t leave it behind_.

He doesn’t know whether to feel touched or to berate the boy for worrying about ridiculous things.

Captain Smith leads them back through the house. Will keeps his gaze ahead, getting through the rooms quickly and breathing a sigh of relief as they exit out into the front path. A small convoy of trucks idle on the road in front of the house. Groups of men mill about—smoking, pissing, stretching their legs—a mixture of seasoned fighters and fresh recruits, going by the assortment of patches that Will can make out. At the head of the small convoy is an officer’s car, exhaust fumes swirling in the air around it. There’s a downed tree blocking the road that Will hadn’t noticed on their arrival.

A stout colonel sits in the car directing his men on moving the tree and Will barely holds back a scowl at the thick air of contempt and self-importance oozing off the man. Smith approaches the colonel with the intention of getting them passage in one of the trucks, and the man’s already turbulent mind darkens like storm clouds. His tone is demure as he speaks to the colonel, but borders on argumentative—weary distain coloring his emotions. A thinly veiled malice skates underneath their interactions, one that the colonel was almost completely oblivious to.

Despite the colonel’s acerbic words, it doesn’t take much to convince the him of their inclusion. He dismisses them impatiently, allowing Smith to lead them down the line to the casuals truck. The sound of men being called back to the trucks follows them as Will presumes the tree has been moved at last.

Will—having noticed the mud caking the vehicles, their battered exteriors and the tired, dirty men filling them—turns to the captain, already having an idea of what the answer will be before he even asks his question. “How did you get here, sir?”

“Crossed No Man’s Land just outside Bapaume,” Smith explains, weariness etched into his face, filling the air around him. “Took us the whole night. Bumped into a couple of hun stragglers on the way who made a...nuisance of themselves.”

 _We lost more men than we needed to_ , is what Will gleans from his mind.

(There are two smoldering lorries in No Man’s Land, left behind like burning pyres in the mud and decay. It haunts the captain even now and his gaze lingers on the men they pass, almost obsessive in ensuring their wellbeing.)

“Wasn’t Bapaume just taken? And now you’re going up to the new line?” Blake inquires, confused. He’s limping heavily now and Will has the intense urge to reach out lend the boy his arm. He goes to do just that but stops when Blake gives him a look and shakes his head— _Don’t want to look weak in front of the captain_ —

“The Newfoundlands have pushed forwards and requested reinforcements,” the captain clarifies, coming to a stop in front of the last truck. “So we are attempting to answer that request.”

The hard edges of Smith’s face ease as he looks on them.

“I understand you have a difficult mission ahead of you, gentlemen. So may I tell you something that you probably already know?” the captain asks gently. There's a mindfulness to his tone, an understanding in his dark eyes that has Will pulling up short. 

Smith looks past them, back to the house they just left. Finally, he says, “It's times like these that we have to ask ourselves: Do we try to be the bigger man? Or will we be the one that survives?" He turns back to them, raising an eyebrow pointedly. "We must remember, though—this isn't a war of bigger men."

Will can feel Blake shift uncomfortably beside him. 

“Whatever happened, it's best not to dwell on it,” the captain ends with. (He can’t help but think of an explosion—a lorry in flames—his men screaming as they burned—hundreds more lost in the trenches—)

Will fights to keep his face carefully blank.

Smith leaves then with that, leading them to the back of the truck and instructing the men to make room for them before heading back to the front of the convoy. The respect for the captain is palpable as the men do as he says with little fuss, shifting around to make room for he and Blake to squeeze in.

Will hands off his rifle to one of the men in the truck and a another helps pull him up into the back. He reaches for Blake, taking it upon himself to drag the younger man up. Blake grunts and Will can feel the sharp twinge in his side. The boy pales again as his strength drains from him and Will is quick to make room for them on the fringe. He gets Blake seated on the bench, sitting himself on Blake’s injured side to protect him from any jostling during the journey. He shoots Blake a look of concern when the boy continues to hold his side, but Blake just waves him off.

“Nothing for it, Sco,” he says. His face is sweaty, drawn tight with pain, but he manages to give Will a small smile. “Just gotta get to the Devons, yeah?”

Will gives a shaky sigh, resigned to Blake’s obstinacy. He looks around them at the twenty or so men crammed into the lorry, an amalgamation of companies—some Scots, some Sikhs. They barely receive a cursory glance, their thoughts hardly concerned with two hitchhikers this late into their journey.

The truck starts, sending a shudder through the cab and jerking into motion. Will leans more into Blake’s side to steady the boy. He feels Blake respond the same, his fingers lightly grazing Will’s where they rest on the bench between them. Will doesn’t pull away, twitching his back.

They just need to get to the Devons. They weren’t far now, the convoy could practically take them there. They just need to deliver the message. They can do this.

Will keeps these thoughts as they travel over the French countryside.

It doesn’t take long for Blake to shed his unease in the company of strangers—the boy was sociable with _anyone_. It takes him all of ten minutes to start introductions in the cab, which leads to a lengthy and exaggerated rendition of their journey so far. Blake was a good storyteller—funny and clever with his words to keep his audience entertained—even if some parts were played up for dramatics, making Will snort and Blake elbow for the interruption.

“So anyway, we’re watching the dogfight, yeah? Our boys shoot down the hun fighter and—the thing comes _straight_ for us! We have to run for it! Nearly crashed right on top us!”

There’s loud exclamations at that. Blake’s got the men captivated. Will, having gotten himself as comfortable as he can against canvas, watches as Blake flails his hands in the air, his right one less so than his left to prevent from stretching his wound too much. Will’s doing well to pay attention to the story at all—the loud, overlapping thoughts and emotions of the men in the cab drilling into his skull with an relentless fervor that leaves his head head throbbing.

“Bollocks,” a Scot at the end of the bench—Cooke—scoffs. “No way any of that’s true.”— _Too mad to be true, he’s makin’ it all up_ —

Blake turns to glare at him and his temper flares, much to Will’s chagrin. “I’m telling the truth, ain’t I? We were bloody near killed twice already!”

“Your mission sounds cursed, mate,” the sepoy, Jondalar, says. (The man recalls a memory of something his Nani used to tell him about curses but most of it is lost to Will in a jumble of English and a rougher language he wasn't familiar with.)

“Oh, shove it, Jonny,” Private Butler moans, puffing on a fag across from them. “You and your bloody curses.” – _Don’t believe in all that superstitious shite_ —

“So the boche really destroyed their own trenches?” Malky interrupts, astonished. He’s been kicking out at Cooke for the past half hour, fighting for foot room when the other private encroaches on his space.

Blake turns away from his glaring contest with Cooke. “Yeah. Set up trip wires and blew their artillery, too.”

“Smart,” Jondalar muses. The men make disgruntled noises at him but he shrugs. “They know we will follow them. The traps will slow us down and pick off a few of us at a time. Like the land mines.”

The air becomes thick with tension, a collective of remembered pain—( _an explosion—men screaming as they burned—having to continue on_ )—

“A final ‘fuck you’ as they turn tail and run,” the man sat beside Will mumbles. The bitterness in Rossi’s voice is compounded but the absolute hate inside of him.

“Fuckin’ hun,” Cooke mutters.

Will watches across from him as Butler blows out a stream of smoke before pointing at Blake. “So how did you get injured?” he asks. At Blake’s surprised look he motions to his own side. “Noticed you were favorin’ yourself.”

Blake makes a face and embarrassment fills him. “Yeah, well—we pulled the pilot from the plane. Tried to help him and he repaid us by trying to stab me.” He shrugs sheepishly. “Got me a little.”

Cooke sneers. “Why would you fuckin’ bother? Shoulda let the boche fry.”

Nausea sweeps through Blake. Will glances at him, but the boy’s face is fixed and he’s glaring at Cooke again.

“I think it was honorable,” Jondalar counters, and Cooke makes a noise of disgust— _Fuckin’ Jondalar_ —“War is cruel, but that does not mean we have to be savages.”

“Well, aren’t _they_ the bloody savages?” Cooke counters. “Attackin’ this country, killing our people,” he thumbs at Blake, “stabbing this bloke when he tried to help?”

“Don’t think it’s that simple, Cooke,” Butler drawls. Cooke hits out at him and the older man avoids him easily. "I agree with Jonny. You did your best, mate," he tells Blake. 

Hearing it from more than just Will must do the trick—something settles in Blake. The guilt and insecurity still remained, but it was significantly lessened compared to back at the farm. 

“Why ya heading to Écoust, anyway?” A blonde asks from the back—Singer. (He doesn't often speak up, content to listen to his friends converse, but he is curious about the two lance corporals from the East Surrey Regiment that has joined them on their journey.)

Blake explains about the letter and the danger the 2nd Devons were unknowingly in. The cab is quiet when he finishes, shock rippling through the men as they take it in. 

“Bloody hell, are you serious?” Butler is the first to ask. Blake nods.

“How many?” Cooke asks.

“Sixteen hundred.” There are several curses, Cooke’s sharp “ _Jesus_ ” sounding over the rest. Blake pauses and Will feels a sharp pang of fear run through him, his thoughts on Joe. “My brother’s a lieutenant in the Devons.”

“Christ, mate,” Singer breathes.

“Why did they just send the two of you?” Rossi questions— _The general must be mad to send only two men for something like this_ —

Will finds the energy to huff, arching an eyebrow at Blake. They exchange a wry look.

Blake shrugs. “Some shite about being faster on our own.”

“Think you’ll make it?” Cooke asks bluntly. (He’s honestly curious—if more than a little skeptical.)

“Yeah, ‘course we will,” Blake asserts. He turns to Will. “Right, Sco?”

Will nods, trying to borrow some of that confidence. “Yes, we will.”

The smile Blake gives him has him fighting back a blush like a smitten school boy, much to his frustration.

“Bloody hell, he speaks!” Butler crows, causing Will to jump. “Thought you were mute, mate!”

Will glares at the man. Before he can retort—or not, just out of spite and his splitting head—the truck lurches violently. Will bumps into Rossi with a curse and manages to hold his arm out to prevent Blake from crashing into him. The engine groans under them and there’s the sound of tired spinning.

“Oh, no,” Malky mumbles from the front as a spatter of mud is thrown up in the air. The engine revs, but the truck sinks deeper. There is a collective groan throughout the cabin.

“Arsehole needs driving lessons,” Cooke grumbles as the men start to stand against the canvas. Will stands as well, putting a hand on Blake’s shoulder when the boy tries to follow and pushing him back into the bench.

“Stay here,” he commands. Blake tries to complain, but a Will has none of it. “You’re injured. We’ll probably have to push it out. You won’t be much good, Blake.”

The boy huffs but relents and Will exits with the rest of the men.

It takes a group effort, Will leading the men to pushing, then eventually lifting the lorry out of the mud. It’s a strain on them all, but they finally get it unstuck. Will ends up face first in the mud, Jondalar having to help him up and back to the truck as exhaustion starts to take over once more.

Blake offers to help him but Will gently pushes his hands away and pulls himself up with a grunt, plopping back down beside the boy tiredly. It’s doesn’t take long for the rest of the men get settled and they are off again.

His hand is throbbing in agony. The bandaging is completely ruined—dust from the mines, Blake’s blood, mud, and god knows what else turning the gauze a dark, grimy color. He tries to bend his hand and winces when he can’t close it all the way. He grits his teeth against the pain.

A pale hand reaches out and takes his gently and Will flinches. He looks up and sees Blake inspecting his injured hand in concern.

“Fuck, what have ya do to it?” He looks up and gives Will a small smile, trying his best to play off his worry with humor. “You go and ruin all my hard work.”

Will huffs. “If you hadn’t noticed, it’s been a rough day.”

Blake laughs, then winces and glares at Will. “Told you not to make me laugh,” he wheezes. He turns to the cabin. “Any of you lot got extra dressing?”

Jondalar readily hands over his. “What happened?” He asks as he eyes Will’s hand.

“Barbed wire. No Man’s Land,” Will explains shortly as Blake unwinds his soiled bandages, cringing when it pulls on the wound.

“Also went through a dead body, didn’t it?” Blake says offhandedly, pulling out his canteen to wash the wound out. Will has to hold in the urge to pull away when the cool liquid makes contact with his inflamed palm. It looks ghastly in the daylight.

“Fuckin’ hell,” Cooke gags. His disgust was warranted.

“Maybe your mission _is_ cursed,” Butler comments worriedly. Jondalar scoffs.

Will grits his teeth as Blake finishes wrapping the clean gauze tightly over his hand. His hand still throbs with pain and feels swollen and uncomfortable, but it was nice having new dressing not covered in dirt and blood.

Blake’s fingers linger on Will’s, and his heart races from the contact. Their gazes meet, a promise in Blake’s eyes— _Later_ —and Will feels a longing rise in him like the tide. He squeezes Blake's fingers, sealing that promise. _Later_. 

“Falling to pieces, aren’t we?” Blake quips with a tired smile, letting go of Will's hand (his skin misses the warmth instantly). Will breathes a laugh, slumping against the canvas.

They continue their journey, listening to men joke with one another, basking in the familiarity and camaraderie. It makes Will wistful for their own men back at the eighth. For once Blake is quiet, resting against Will as exhaustion catches up to him, laughing along every so often at the men's antics and stories.

Will closes his eyes and basks in the sound, glad for the reprieve, however short it is.

A downed bridge is what brings an end to their journey with the convoy. The truck comes to a juddering stop, waking Blake from his doze against Will, and the driver shouts the bad news back to them.

“Oh.” Cooke remarks. “That’s a shame.”

Anxiety shoots through Blake— _No, no, no, no_ —and he looks over to Will. Blake is good with maps and terrain—Will can practically see the calculations in his head as he tries to guess the route the convoy will have to take to get to the front. And what he determines is—they can no longer stay with the convoy. It will be too much of a delay.

Will understands this, though he doesn't have to like it. He nods his assent at Blake's unasked question.

“Looks like this is our stop, boys,” Blake declares as they both move to disembark. “Lovely meeting you all. Good luck on your way to the front.”

“Save some of that luck for yourselves, eh? Think you’ll be needing it,” Rossi replies, noises of agreement coming from the others.

The rest of the men wish them luck as they stumble out of the lorry. Will has to help Blake down from the back, the boy nearly losing his footing as he lands wrong and Will has to catch him. They gather themselves and head around the truck, stopping on the road just shy of the downed bridge. Captain Smith joins them as they overlook the town. They can see the destruction from where they’re standing—buildings demolished, smoke still rising from the ruins. The bridge is nothing more than grates and steel lying in the canal.

“Next bridge is six miles. We’ll have to divert,” Smith informs them. He eyes the destruction with a mix of dread and resignation.

Will shakes his head, glancing at this watch. “We can’t sir. We don’t have the time.”

“Of course,” Smith agrees readily. He’s still examining the downed bridge— _planned, most likely an ambush waiting for us further down_ —

Will, stills—a sudden, painful awareness beginning to fill him. He slowly turns to the captain, observing the man's grim demeanor with dawning horror. He's helpless as his eyes drift over to the convoy, his mind taking in the thoughts of the men with a new kind of clarity.

“The best of luck to you both,” he hears the captain say. “I hope you make it.”

“Thank you, sir,” Blake replies and Will tries to keep his breathing under control as he looks away from the trucks.

Smith hesitates for a moment before saying, “Gentlemen. If you do manage to get to Colonel Mackenzie, make sure there are witnesses.”

There is a heaviness to his words, the weight of knowledge he shouldn’t have but has seen time and time again. He is worried for them—worried that even if they do manage to make it to the Devons, that Colonel Mackenzie will impede them.

— _Mackenzie will fight them. He is not one to listen to reason when victory is all but in sight_ —

“They are direct orders, sir,” Blake says carefully, but the captain interrupts him.

“I know. But some men just want the fight.”

Blake is incredulous and Will bites his tongue as bitterness fills him.

“Good luck, gentlemen,” Smith adds before he turns to leave.

Will watches the captain walk away. He doesn’t know where it comes from, but the urge hits him and he’s blurting out before he can stop himself—“I hope you make it, too, sir.”

That gives Smith pause. He turns and regards Will for a long moment. He’s sure the captain sees something in his face because the older man nods gratefully to him, a small tilt of his head, before he’s heading to the front of the convoy once more, signaling for them to move out.

They watch the trucks move out, the men from the casuals truck waving to them as they pass. Will can feel the unfairness of it all like a weight in his chest. What could await these men—he can’t bear to think it. He watches as they get further away, their thoughts and emotions thinning the farther they get, and prays for their safety.

Things become quieter after that and Will’s able to breathe a little easier, think a little clearer. Blake’s thoughts consume him once more and the boy’s nerves were jittery enough with apprehension that Will can practically feel himself vibrating from it.

“What if he’s right?” Blake asks, his voice shaky. “What’ll we do if Mackenzie won’t listen?”

An unusual determination fills Will, mostly likely from Blake's uncertainty. “Then we’ll make him,” he asserts. The surety of it bolsters Blake and Will feels a little bit of accomplishment at that.

They face the remains of the bridge—shattered and half blown, now little more than twisted metal dropping into the water. The town of Écoust is a jagged silhouette across the canal, visible about two hundred yards the other side of the canal. Smoke drifts from the ruins of buildings. The town must still be on fire.

“How should we go about this?” Blake asks, observing the remains of the bridge skeptically.

Will’s brow furrows, and he gets a sense of someone watching them from afar. He shivers, casting his eyes around for the source. He sees no one. He digs down inside him once more and pushes outwards, searching for what—or who—it could be. He reaches past the bridge, over the canal, and into the closest buildings. He senses someone in the top room of the lockhouse across the way—a German sniper. Lying in wait and watching them from closely, excitement coursing through him at the thought of pulling the trigger and—

“Sco, you’re bleeding!”

Blake’s voice is tense with worry and it draws him back to himself. He blinks and the boy is in front of him, reaching out in concern and Will flinches back in surprise. He brings a hand up to his nose and it comes away red. He holds in a curse. He hadn’t meant for Blake to see him in this state.

“It’s nothing,” he quickly brushes off, wiping the blood away with his sleeve.

Blake takes a step towards him again. “ _Sco_ —”

He interrupts the boy, “I think I saw movement in the lockhouse there. In the top window.” He points in that direction, diverting Blake’s attention to the buidling where the sniper was hiding out, waiting for them.

Blake’s alert instantly, though he still gives Will one last unreadable look before setting his attention on the lockhouse. “Think it’s a hun?”

“Yes,” Will confirms.

Blake doesn’t question his judgement. “Right. We need to hurry then.”

They secure their rifles on their shoulders and Will takes the lead. He starts along the bridge, keeping his senses trained on the sniper. He carefully climbs up onto the slim metal balustrade and starts inching downwards towards the waterline. It takes all his effort not to lose his balance and fall into the water below. He glances back to see Blake copying him, following behind him at a slower pace and having more trouble keeping himself balanced, favoring his side.

Will soon reaches the base of the slope and looks across at the remaining half of the bridge, about eight feet of water between him and the other side. Blake comes up behind him and he prepares to jump across—

He feels the intention before the sniper even pulls the trigger. He throws himself back at the last second, nearly sending Blake right off the railing just as a loud crack slaps the water just in front of him. A warning shot.

“ _Shit_!” Blake exclaims. He grips the back of Will’s pack to keep from falling in the water.

Will’s connection with the sniper thrums and he knows where the next shot will land. Without thinking he leaps across the gap, the shot ringing out as it cracks against where he had been standing. He lands heavily on the other side of the bridge, clinging on to the metal lattice work with desperate fingers, his feet slipping into the murky, cold water. He has to haul himself up so as not to fall completely into the canal, his injured hand screaming. He looks back, seeing Blake’s pale face as he hesitates to make the jump behind Will. Will knows where the next intended shot will land and he panics.

“Blake! Jump!” He yells.

The desperation in his voice is enough to get the boy moving and Blake leaps across the gap just as the bullet makes contact on the on the balustrade behind him.

Blake lands on the lattice next to Will clumsily, screaming out as his hip jars against the metal and Will gasps from the pain of it. Will has to grab the boy before he can slip right off the bridge. It nearly sends Will in after him but he manages to lift Blake up enough for the younger man to grab onto the bridge. The sniper has let off several shots in those seconds, each bullet hitting the lattice in front of them and making them both jolt. Will begins to scramble forward to the opposite bank, keeping one eye on Blake who is following on his heels as quick as he can. He climbs across the torn carcass of the bridge, the metal eating into his hands and bullets coming within inches of his fingers, forcing him to move at the last second to not lose his grip.

Once they reach the other side, Will struggles off the bridge and falls into the bank wall, catching Blake as he crashes into him a second later. Will rips in breaths as he presses both of them into the stone wall, Blake wheezing beside him. He keeps them low, both of them having to bend their legs to stay below the wall. Will notices a small stairwell off to the side. He looks to Blake, motioning to it, and the boy nods. They inch along the wall, quickly making their way to the opening. Will can sense the sniper readying another shot, can feel his anticipation f _ür die Tommies ihre köpfe über die mauer zu strecken, und dann werde ich eine geschoss zwischen jedem ihrer augen führen_ —

Will wrenches away from those thoughts—tries to separate himself. Blake is at his side, pressing in close. It helps distract him.

They reach the stairwell and have to dart to the other side to avoid the next shot, chips of stone flying in the air around them. They are both breathing heavily, Will’s heart racing and he’s nearly lightheaded from the adrenaline.

Will readies his rifle, his fingers icy with nerves and his injured hand making it difficult to handle the weapon properly. His hands shake violently as he tries to check and load his gun. He looks at Blake and the boy has his gun ready as well. Blake nods once to him, giving Will the lead. He knows who the better marksman is between them.

Will, still panting from the exertion, creeps up to the top of the stairs slowly. He tries to still his trembling body as he peers over the top step, pushing out once more to try and get a better lock on the sniper so that he can line up his shot.

He has to duck down quickly when he senses the sniper spotting him, and seconds later a bullet sings off the stone where his head had been. He hears Blake curse quietly, his repeating thoughts of _Careful, careful, be careful_ were not helping.

Will takes a moment, sucking in a deep breath and holding it. He exhales as he leans into the shadow of the wall, his hands clenching on his rifle, preparing himself.

He moves fast, lifting his body above the wall and firing off a single shot at the lockhouse window.

He knows he got close because in the second it takes for the sniper to retaliate he could sense the man’s shock and surprise. Will ducks down to avoid the answering shot, popping up once more to fire off one of his own, his aim true as his mind locks onto the sniper.

He feels pain with the shock this time. There isn’t an answering shot.

Will freezes, looking up at window. He's breathing hard, his body still shaking—from the cold or from adrenaline, it was hard to tell. He has the urge to fire off more shots, but he knows. He hit the sniper in that last shot. The man was down. Not dead, just injured. His pain and panic were potent even from a distance.

“Did you get him?” Blake hisses, noticing the silence.

Will doesn’t bother answering. He readies himself and stands, keeping his rifle fixed and pointed towards the window. He advances towards the lockhouse, leaving Blake yelling for him on the stairs. He needs to get up to that room. The sniper wasn’t dead. He was still a threat.

Will reaches the doors to the building, moving inside as he hears Blake rushing up behind him. He doesn’t wait, taking the stairs two at a time to reach the top floor. He’s locked on to his target, a single-minded instinct overtaking him as he reaches the door on the upper floor. He can hear Blake calling his name from below, trying in vain to catch up with him, but Will was far too lost to instinct to pay attention. He can feel the sniper preparing himself to shoot as soon as the door will open.

Will doesn’t give him the chance. He fires straight through the door.

He hears a pained cry through the splintering of the wood, the door swinging open from the blast. Will gets a glimpse of the German soldier, slumped and covered in blood—can feel his life fading quickly. But not quickly enough.

In those few seconds, the German manages to weakly raise his pistol and fire off a single shot.

Will doesn’t have time to react. He feels the bullet whiz by his face, feels a sharp, concussive pain in his left ear, and the force of it sends him stumbling back. His foot meets air and he’s falling.

He feels the impact before everything goes black.

Will jolts back into consciousness, his head pounding in agony. There’s a deafening ring in his ears, his left drumming unbearably. He opens his eyes to the stairwell, the cloudy sky outside casting shadows along the wall. His eyes rove in his skull wildly—everything around him unfocused and hazy.

He sees a blurry figure above him. They shift into a patch of light and as his vision focuses enough that he sees Blake. The boy’s face is pinched with worry, his cheeks wet and shining. His mouth is moving, but Will can’t understand the words under the piercing ring or past the excruciating pain in his head. All he can do is blink up at the boy, uncomprehending.

He feels himself being shifted. He realizes Blake is holding him—cradling him as they lay sprawled on the ground. There’s a hand on his face, pressing into his right cheek, sweaty and warm and grounding. The left side of his face feels wet, the back of his head throbbing, skin feeling tight and swollen. His skull feels like it’s been split open, its contents spilling out onto the ground below him.

Blake’s mouth continues to form words, lips moving rapidly but he can’t focus enough to interpret them. He realizes that he can’t sense anything from the boy—no emotions, no thoughts. It’s suffocatingly quiet. He feels his throat work and he must make a pathetic sound by how Blake’s thumb rubs soothingly across his cheekbone, his lips pursing in a shushing motion. It comforts him somewhat, and he was forgetting why he was upset in the first place.

Will begins to drift, then—the pain in his head trying to send him into oblivion. The ringing is filling his head, though, crescendoing and vibrating through his skull, an intense cacophony rising until it’s near agonizing. He squeezes his eyes shut and his hands make a valiant effort to come up to his head but they drop back to the ground a second later.

The arms holding him tighten, the hand pressed to his face patting him gently, not quite slapping but getting there. Will can’t open his eyes. He feels a building pressure inside him, rushing through him with a sudden intensity that leaves him breathless. His head is screaming. His eyes roll into the back of his head and—

Everything _explodes_.

He is overwhelmed with sensation. Emotions and thoughts become indistinguishable from one another as they assault him with the force of an artillery blast. Like a door opening, everything surges forth—overflowing, spilling from him in torrents. He spreads far, extending into the void and touching the minds of those he comes into contact with—like shards of glass cutting into the edge of his awareness, whispers of foreign voices and emotions piled onto one another in an endless discordance. It’s further than he’s ever pushed—it’s past his limit and he feels stretched too thin. Ready to snap.

It’s the desperation that has him latching onto the closest thing he can—the familiarity of it like a cool touch to his fevered mind—and he falls…

He is lost to a sea of riotous color and light. Flashes of images and sensations—people and places and thoughts and emotions all blended together—fill him, consume him, overwhelm him. He drifts, helpless in the chaos, until everything around him condenses into a solid standpoint and then—

— _He is six years old. He is small and scared and can’t stop crying as his father’s casket is lowered into the ground. Mummy holds him in her arms as he sobs. Joe stands next to them, young and just as scared but he hasn’t seen his older brother cry yet and it upsets him how hard Joe is trying to hold himself together for their sakes. They stand and watch as dirt is thrown into the grave and the smell of freshly turned soil will remind him of this day for years to come_ —

— _He is thirteen. He watches as Joe is thrown from his horse and doesn’t get up. He runs to his brother’s side as the spooked horse takes off, crying out Joe’s name. Joe doesn’t move, his face is slack, blood running into the dry dirt, over the rock sticking out of the ground. He screams for his mother as he cradles his brother’s head in his lap. Joe doesn’t wake. He cries and cries and when their neighbor comes to help move Joe to the house and he is near numb with fear and worry. The doctor comes and mum tells him Joe will be alright, he will wake soon, not to worry. That doesn’t stop him from waiting up all night. And when Joe does finally wake, groggy and confused and alright, it doesn't stop the deep-seeded fear from taking root inside him. If he were to lose his brother, he didn't know what he would do—_

— _He is nineteen. France is different from England. It’s a lot drearier than he was expecting. The East Surrey Regiment offers him an opportunity for actual combat on the front and he’s excited the moment he walks into camp. The men overall are welcoming. Tired and dirty, but friendly enough. There’s one man, though, who stands out to him. A gaunt-looking man, keeping to himself on the outskirts of the camp. The other men scoff, tell him to leave the man be. He fought in the Somme, they say. Transferred this past month. Not very sociable, dour man, keeps to himself most of the time, doesn’t speak to them, must think he’s better than them—He ignores the whispers. The look in the man’s eyes stirs something in him, he can’t explain what. He feels drawn to the lance corporal and it doesn’t take him long to decide to search the man out. Everyone needs someone, his mum always says_ —

...a shift in the chaos. Something more familiar plays out in front of him...

— _Sco is tearing off across the street before he can even blink and he curses, struggling up the canal steps and running to catch up, his side burning. He shouts after the man but Sco doesn’t stop, disappearing into the lockhouse. Sco’s already on the second landing by the time he makes it inside. His heart is beating rapidly and he climbs the stairs as fast as his injury will allow him, his breath wheezing. He’s still calling out Sco’s name when he hears two gunshots go off. He freezes. There’s a loud thud a second later and his heart fucking stops. He stumbles up the remaining steps and the sight of Sco at the bottom of the stairs has him crying out in panic. He doesn’t spare a thought for the sniper as he falls to Sco’s side, his desperate fingers searching for a pulse. Sco doesn’t move, doesn’t wake, and he doesn’t know what to do_ —

—There is a flash and things seem different this time. He is looking down at himself. But—no. No, he’s looking down at Sco. Sco, cradled in his arms, going ridged and starting to shake in his grasp, his eyes squeezed shut like he’s in pain. He panics, nearly dropping Sco in his haste to place the man flat on the floor. Fear is consuming him and he feels like he’s going to pass out. Sco is covered in blood—it’s gushing from his nose, leaking from the back of his head, painting the left side of his face, his ear a mangled mess—is a frightening sight. Sco’s fit has yet to stop and he can’t stop crying, heaving sobs making his throat ache as he places his hands on either side of his friend’s face, trying to hold him still as he seizes. He’s so fucking scared, he doesn’t know what to do—

Will slams back into himself so suddenly his mind is left floundering in desperation, struggling to orient itself. His eyes snap open and he breathes in a sharp gasp, his chest aching and tight like he hasn’t gotten enough air. His head is still so full and he strains to separate the fragments of images and feelings from his own and failing. He has never felt so out of place in his own skin before.

His body is trembling, his limps feeling tight. His head pounds. He’s flat on the ground now and Blake’s over him, sobbing, both of his hands on either side of a Will’s head, holding him in place—the shift in perspective is disturbing to Will. His thoughts are so loud that Will struggles to understand. He opens his mouth, but he’s overwhelmed with Blake’s emotions— _fear, worry, grief, terror, helplessness_ —it’s a miasma of negative emotions that threaten to drown him. He chokes, his breathe stuttering under the crushing weight of it.

His mind somehow catches up with what Blake is saying—" _Oh god, Sco, Sco please, please stop, please, oh god, what do I do, fuck, what do I do, something’s wrong, I can’t, I don’t know what to do, please, someone help, I need help, I don’t know what to do_ ”—it’s desperate and frightened and...Will’s not entirely sure it’s being said out loud. The words were so clear that he couldn’t tell the difference.

Blake continues to cry over him and Will thinks he should do something about that. Something in him withers at seeing the boy so upset.

With effort—because it’s taking a lot out of him right then to put focus on anything other than his pounding head—Will manages to get his arm to cooperate and he lifts his hand, shaky and uncoordinated, to place on Blake’s cheek. Blake stills, eyes wide. His face is warm and wet under Will’s hand. He rubs his thumb under the boy’s eye soothingly, like Blake did for him.

“It’s alright,” is what he manages to say, he thinks. He feels his throat working, feels the vibrations though his vocal cords, but his voice comes out muffled—he can’t hear it over the ringing, or over Blake’s incessant thoughts. “I’m alright.”

Blake is looking at him and the mix of fear and helplessness that washes over Will makes his eyes prick with tears. Blake’s lips tremble and he brings a hand up to hold Will’s. The worry remains, but tenderness slowly floods him with warmth, and it’s something he has felt from Blake before. Yet this time it’s amplified and raw and almost euphoric like in the realization of something grand and pure and he’s felt something close to this before _—_ less powerful and more familial, but the underlying emotion remained the same. It feels like—

 _Love_ his mind supplies. It feels like _love_.

It fills him, swirling into the crevices of his being with a confident strength built up over the time they've had together. Images and emotions flash through his mind _—_ moments in their friendship where Blake noticed Will and felt things for him and struggled with what he was sure was a one-sided infatuation with his best friend. Things that Will had already been partially aware of but still so oblivious to at the same time and he feels ashamed. The warmth he has inside himself for Blake rises up in response to meet that emotion, mirroring it and...oh. _Oh_.

 _That's_ what that was.

Will, unfortunately, doesn’t have time to properly grasp the realization before his mind starts to shut down. His eyes begin to shut against his will, but Blake doesn’t allow him to rest like he wants. The boy is slapping his face the next second and panic shoots through Will that was not his own. Will’s eyes pop open once more and Blake is shaking his head.

“ _No, no, Sco, can’t go to sleep, need to stay awake_ —”

Will grunts. He tries to send a glare up at the boy but he doesn’t think he succeeds. Blake lifts him once more, only enough to bring Will back into his lap, resting his head gently on his legs. Will is reminded of another time like this and it nearly brings a smile to his face.

“ _You need to stay awake, Sco_ ,” Blake repeats—thinks? His arms are tight around Will, his worry and fear overpowering despite Will's exhaustion.

Will wants to do as Blake says, but he just. Can’t. His eyes are already shutting once more—Blake’s pleas for him to stay awake following him into the dark.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And there it is! The hot trash is finally out in the open! I should have probably just labelled this chapter as "Will and Tom use up all of the convoy's field dressing" to be honest. 
> 
> Story time!: I struggled so much with what to do with Blake and how to injure him but have him survive, that I finally decided to consult my very smart best friend, who is a RN (registered nurse). I gave her the scenario and you know what she gave me? A fucking play by play of one of her patients who came into the ER with injuries just like I gave Blake (obviously withholding the patient's personal info) and tips on how it would need to be treated and how his body would react during the whole thing. Like. I fucking love her so much, she got the ball rolling again and I am so thankful to her.
> 
> I gotta admit, most of this chapter was self-indulgence for me--I wanted more interaction with the convoy, and I figured since Blake survived and he's basically a social butterfly, that the whole convoy scene would be different. And so I wrote that. Hope it didn't suck too bad--my weakness is dialogue, unfortunately! xUx (Also, I blame Ealasaid cause she talked me into extending the convoy scene and writing what I fucking wanted and letting me feel so valid for wanting more of Smith and the lads).
> 
> And what happens with the convoy? I honestly don't know. I've read articles and posts and speculations about their fate and honestly? I wanted to leave it up in the air with a dash of angst and maybe even a little bit of hope that they actually make it? I guess we'll never know (UNLESS SOMEONE WRITES IT)
> 
> What's going on at the end, you ask? Well, I gave Will a good ol bonk on the head (as per the movie), buuuut. I asked myself--what would a telempath be like with a severe concussion? It definitely has to do with Will's growing bond with Blake, as well as the added depersonalization that comes with delving too deeply into someone else's mind. You gotta be careful with these things. (Honestly I'm just hoping all that shit made sense! LOL My own mind was struggling to get that translated into this fic so idk)
> 
> One last thing, then I'm done rambling like a lunatic:
> 
> EALASAID!!! Thank you so much for listening to me complain, ramble, bounce ideas, and just. Thank you for the advice and love! I really appreciate it! And to rest of the Officer's Club who heard my constant grumbling and anxiety-riddled squalling--THANK YOU. I LOVE YOU ALL!
> 
> (Translation for the German: “for the Tommies to stick their heads over the wall, and then I'll put a bullet between each of their eyes” - or roughly thereabouts, according to google translate)
> 
> Wow this is only the second chapter. I better cool it, still got one more to do. :P

**Author's Note:**

> Alright, chapter one DONE! 
> 
> This is honestly the reason why I wrote ATYW--I first imagined the scene with Will feeling the German pilot's "savage intent" like, months ago, wrote ATYW, and now I get to write what I really wanted! Ugh. I love how things come around. (Sorry to those who don't want to read a play-by-play of the movie once again, but at least it's a different interpretation???)
> 
> Also, this was a _challenge_ in writing physical expressions of interest between these two. If no one is aware by this point, I am asexual (biromantic/asexual to be exact), so romance? Yeah. I'm working it through with these two!
> 
> Also, if anyone's wondering why Will doesn't hear thoughts like all the time, think of it this way--if I wrote out every thought he heard throughout the course of this story, there would be a lot more Italics than actual story. Also, people don't think in words like that all the time. Think about it. Do YOU think in words every second of every day? I sure don't. My mind is a mix of colors, images, scenarios, songs, impressions, emotions, and a fuzzy blankness when I'm watching, say, Friends or something. It's not as simple as someone thinking in full sentences. Will may hear snippets here and there, but in reality? He'll be feeling impressions, emotions, and the like WAY more often. At least, according to my rules. <.<
> 
> (If you want to get a glimpse into my madness, this whole concept of telepathy is based on Dan Simmon's book _Hollow Man_. Honestly the best interpretation of telepathy and psychic abilities I've ever read.)
> 
> German translation (according to the script(+)google translate): -- _my God, my God, help, it hurts, it hurts, please, don't kill me, oh God, please_ \--
> 
> Anyways! Stay tuned for the next chapter! Sorry to leave it in such a way. ;) (tags will be added as we go!)
> 
> (And please leave a comment or like! :D)


End file.
